


Bakchai

by Maharetchan



Series: My Care is like my Shadow [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dead animals, Disturbing Themes, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hunting, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail moves into Hannibal's house and the dynamics between the three of them start to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apollonian and Dionysian

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. You know the drill by now: this got kinda out of my hands again aaaand so it's long. Also it'll have multiple chapters, but hopefully it'll not take too long to complete them all (ahahah I always say that and it's never true :/). If you want, let me know in the comments if you would prefer the remainin two chapters to be posted together (it may take a while) or as soon as I finish and edit them ^^.  
> 2\. The title of this part refers to the festivities in honor of the god Dionysus and also, minorly, to the play by Euripides.  
> 3\. I reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally want to thank all my readers! You are simple AMAZING!!! AND SUPPORT ME SO MUCH!!! I LOVE YOU ALL!! I have a tumblr ([samiferist](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd loooooooove it! ^^  
> 4\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 5\. I love comments!

"Today I have given up weaving on looms and come  
To something greater: hunting wild beasts with my hands."  
 **\- Euripides, "The Bacchaes"**

 

Will moans loudly against Hannibal's naked shoulder, his teeth scraping the skin, his mouth pressing against it to try to silence the sounds that he's making and that are desperate and needy in ways that make him feel his too exposed.

The man under him grabs his hips tighter and breathes deeply in his neck, smelling him, while Will impales himself again on his cock, using his shoulders as a support and a leverage, trying to control the depth of his thrusts as much as he can in the haze caused by the overwhelming feelings he's experiencing, torturing both of them with movements that are far too slow and excruciating.

Will wishes he could see the look in his eyes, the irises go red and bright, but he doesn't dare looking up while he's in this state, and the blindfold would prevent it anyway: remembering the thrill he felt while tying the silky material around Hannibal's head, makes him moan again.

Hannibal smiled when Will straddled him on the bed without saying a word, pleased and accommodating as he always is when he shows him his teeth and tries to bite back, sending both of them in a spiral of savage love making that feels like a fight to their bodies, violent and intense, that leaves them both bruised and sated.

It's a strange kind of power balance they have there, something they have established bleeding all over each other and leaving deep marks on their insides that will never fade: Hannibal could crush him with one hand, keep him down and take away all his power, reducing him to just a body made to feel and writhe under his own.

But they both understand that it's all a game: Will lies back on the bed and allows Hannibal to take everything he wants from him, to suck him dry of all his strength because he wants him to do it, to annihilate the sentient parts of him and be left gaping and moaning. It's liberating, to taste his own submission in Hannibal's mouth, to feel nothing but pleasure and abandonment. 

It's glorious to see Hannibal bewildered and eager above him, breaking his skin with his sharp teeth, sucking red and purple bruises all over his body, stealing his soul with his mouth and his hands, moving inside him so hard he feels about to break.

And it's intoxicating to get on top of him, to wrestle him down and keep him there, grinding above him and fucking himself, not allowing anything more than what he's willing to give; Will can pin his wrist on the mattress, push his back against the headboard and Hannibal will stay right there, will not do anything Will doesn't want him to do: gives him an absolute power over him.

He doesn't allow it in that paternalistic tone that sometimes the man uses with him, but because he loves how Will looks like that, powerful and terrible; a lioness ready to rip out his throat with incredibly sharp teeth when he least expects it.

Will can read it all in his eyes, in the way his hands dig into his skin and his breath falters while he moves and scratches his back and leaves his own marks on him, making him his own.

Hannibal slides a hand into his hair, running his fingers through them and bringing him down for a kiss, biting his lip so hard they both taste blood and Will licks it off greedily, allowing the movements and following them with his body. Will remembers so much while they're entangled like this, can feel so much more, thrills and electricity are running through his body.

He can see what Hannibal remembers, the devastating intensity of his feelings and of his memories, and their connection is so strong that they're both left breathless. His legs hurt, his mind is working too fast and the other man's lips all over him make him shiver and almost sob in the hollows of his collarbone, in the crook of his neck.

The man blindly caresses his face, his back, scratches his hips and kisses him again and again; Will imagines them together in a dark and spectral wasteland, surrounded by silence and shadows, fucking so hard the only sound around them is their bodies rutting against each other. He feels warm and deadly cold at the same time, his lungs hurt and his head feels so heavy, so anxious and turbid. Inside his heart, there is a wild desire to tear Hannibal apart and to submit to him at the same time, to see him broken and to be on his knees while Hannibal grabs his throat and takes his air away, crushing his neck between his hands until he'll be dying under him.

Will takes the blindfold away and tosses it on the floor, kisses Hannibal while the other man blinks at him, pushes him hard against the wood behind his back, moves up and down on his cock as fast as he can and moans in his mouth when the man runs his nail on his back, not enough to scratch but surely to make him shiver in his arms.

When they look at each other, Hannibal smiles and gently cups his face with hands so cold the thermic shock of it against his skin that feels too hot and too thin makes him groan.

Will goes to lie down on the bed, moaning when Hannibal's cock slides out of him, watches with half opened eyes and panting as the man gets on top of him, between his spread legs, kissing his chest, lapping at his nipples, running his tongue and his lips on his stomach, biting at his thighs.

Hannibal worships his body with poisonous kisses and hands red with blood, with shadows fluttering around him like a cloak that leaks its darkness all over him, darkness that the man licks away together with his sweat.

There a long moment of stillness, before Hannibal enters him again, when they look at each other and Will could swear he has never seen the other man so disheveled and desperate for him before; when he starts to fuck him hard again, deep, deep thrusts splitting his body almost in half, Will bites his shoulder so hard he draws blood and when he swallows it, Hannibal kisses him to taste it in his mouth.

Sometimes, Will thinks he's gonna die like this, with his cold body buried inside him, smothered by its weight and by Hannibal's devastating affection; with his skin covered in bruises and scratches and with the imprint of their toxic love all over him.

The thought makes him smile and slide a hand through his hair, grabbing them and bringing him down to kiss him again, again and again... Hannibal runs his nail on his thighs, sighs in his mouth and all Will can do is staying there on the bed and let him do everything he wants to him, cupping his face while the other man moves inside him, opening his body more and more.

Hannibal looks at him with a soft smile on his lips, something that you'd never expect to see there if you knew what he's really capable of: but he's so much, so many different thing, shades of millions of different colors that swirl and melt together; his breath itches in his lungs, buried there with his words when they kiss. There's a terrible beauty in what he is, in the complexity of his evil and of his tainted way of loving and caring, in its venomous intensity that sips into Will's veins and corrodes his body from the inside.

I love you, I'll destroy you.

You love me, you will destroy me.

This is the sick circle of their love.

When Hannibal gently pushes his thumb against his lips, he sucks on it while caressing his face, pressing his fingers against his cheekbones, the hollows of his eyes, his nose; they map their faces while buried deep inside each others: Will can feel his own light mixing with Hannibal's darkness, creating something new, something dangerous, that kills the nightmares, but leaves behind a cold desert of bones and relics.

Will bites his lips when he comes, imagine them alone there, in a gray and dead valley that breathes and lives only through them: he tangles their fingers together and doesn't let go.

\-----

“Do you ever think about killing Jack? Or Alana?”

Hannibal stops caressing his hair and looks down at him, curled on his side with a pensive look on his face and his hands busy sliding all over his chest; Will feels him breathe deeply and think about his answer very carefully, hiding from his invading mind with practiced ease.

“Do you, Will?”

Will snorts and puffs his breath on his nipple.

“Answer the question without asking it back for once.”

The man looks amused, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes and Will knows what it means, what's going on in the intricate wires and gears of his mind: he's wondering about his tests for him, about the ways he's using to try to understand him and his true motives. And it's hard because Hannibal is good at hiding, at sending mixed signals. He has done it since forever, after all, and lies with a consumed ease that he will never have, no matter how much practice he gets. 

Sometimes, Will just wants to become very small so he can slip inside his cold heart and rest there surrounded by ice and snow, but protected by the single and incredibly warm flame of his love. He'd fell safe there, loved and cared for. And he'd know everything about the other man without being forced to push and break boundaries.

Hannibal's eyes are a reassuring shade of dark and rich brown now, but the flames are waiting just behind the corner, with their menacing red ready to soak through his irides. Will swallows and attempts to relax and not to feel the pressure of that look on him. After a long time, the man takes a deep breath and starts stroking his head again.

“I have imagined several possible scenarios that would force me to kill one or either of them, yes, of course. I'm a man who dedicates much of his time to planning, after all.”

Will caresses the curve of his collarbone, moving his fingers down until the stop on his heart, feeling it beating under the tips: he imagines the muscle pumping blood and life into Hannibal's body, can almost see it if he closes his eyes; his heartbeat is always so steady and calm, it takes a lot of efforts to break his composure and get genuine, unrestrained emotions from him. He feels special for being responsible for so many slips of the mask he wears, for being the catalyst of feelings Hannibal usually keeps for himself; and at the same time, Will finds it overwhelming, because he never knows if he'll get the filtered and sugar coated version of him or the real Hannibal.

“Would you like it? Killing them.”

“Are you asking because you want an honest answer or because you want to be reassured by a very convincing lie?”

Will looks up and doesn't know what to say to that; he bites his lips and tries to find words inside himself to uncover what grew up in the darkness of his soul, a contorted and crooked plant of dark desires and unasked questions that surrounds his heart and intertwines itself with his blood vessels, his arteries and veins. Hannibal can see it and smiles at him. 

“I want the truth.”

“Of course I would, Will. Death is the core of what I am, the roots of my being. I can enjoy it in every form, in every sense of it. Maybe I would feel sorry to make it come before its time for people who could still give so much, but, alas, sometimes it cannot be helped. Sometimes, a man must do everything he can to protect what is dear to him.”

Would you kill me to save yourself? Or Abigail? Would you kill us both? Would you like it? There are so many questions he just cannot bring himself to let out because he's too afraid to hear the answers to do it, that the prospect of hearing a truth he cannot handle is terrifying. The man tilts his head to the side and caresses his face; he can tell that he knows what he was thinking about, but appreciates his silence, the way he respects his limits and waits in the corner for him to find the right time to tell him.

Hannibal kisses him and his lips taste like death and poison; Will licks them and moans into the kiss, allowing the man to hold him so close there's almost no space between them.

Their love is so twisted and toxic it takes away his air, his will, his power: sometimes it feels like it takes away what Will really is and leaves behind an empty shell, raw clay Hannibal can reshape as he likes; and yet he's free when they're alone, he doesn't have to pretend anymore, he can be himself without masks or lies.

Will can lick human blood off a knife and eat a liver fresh cut out of a still warm and alive man and smile about it, feel the thrill and the arousal it gives him and know that he's not going to be judged for it, for liking how it feels, for wanting more. Hannibal is a chain tied around his neck and his wrists that cuts his skin deeply and painfully; but he is also the man who also gives him the key to open the lock and be finally himself, who gives him the power to do anything. To be free and do whatever he likes with that freedom. Even leaving a trail of dead bodies behind him.

Will breathes him in, nuzzles against his shoulder, with Hannibal caressing his back and biting his neck: he closes his eyes feels safe with the faint taste of blood he has in his mouth.

\-----

Two weeks after turning eighteen, Abigail finally leaves the hospital and moves into Hannibal's house; Will stares from the corners as she unpacks her things with the other man's help, filling her new room and making it really hers. The air around them changes with her presence: it feels warmer somehow, less lonely and detached from the word outside; but at the same time, it's heavier, confining, like a cage that clicks behind him and traps Will there with them forever. 

It feels like they're finally a family, but the joy of belonging somewhere with people who understand and want him from what he is, comes with the heavy price of knowing that they will never let him go. That they would rather kill him than allow him to leave. But he stopped caring about that a long time ago, when he decided that this life of lies, murder and sins meant more for him than anything else.

Still, Will cannot bring himself to participate in this ritual and stays on the doorstep, looking at them like they're living on a separate plane of existence and he's just a casual watcher who happened there by chance and will leave soon; Abigail smiles at him sometimes, while Hannibal organizes her room like he wishes to do with both their lives. In the end, they know they'll let him; one cannot say no forever.

The dinner Hannibal prepares to mark the occasion, is lavish and sumptuous, it'd be a better fit for one of his dinner parties than just for the three of them; Will feels out of place with his overused clothes and his sad eyes that look beyond the room and what's going on in there, while Hannibal and Abigail seem so real and at ease in a new environment that smells different and still like is used to at the same time.

He can't help but wonder who deserved the honor to be served tonight to celebrate such a special moment, and stares at the meat in his plate for a long time before eating it, feeling its familiar taste spreading in his mouth, full of guilt and pleasure mixed together. Abigail looks incredibly happy about being finally free, even though she still has strict rules she has to follow, something to help her adjust to normal life again, to keep her anchored to reality while gently easing the transition between the protected hospital and the outside world.

Will understands far too well how she must feel: elated and scared, with so much waiting ahead, ready to be experienced, but also leaving behind things that were familiar and reassuring; becoming something new, stripping of an old life that now lies forgotten and empty somewhere deep inside both of them. All to follow a dark and dangerous god made of ghosts and death. He wonders if she ever asks herself if it's worth it.

Will moves his eyes between the two of them, feeling a new tension mounting there, changing the delicate balances that were created before, reshaping them in new forms he's not sure he understands yet; Hannibal looks calm and content as usual, sips his wine, eats his food and looks at them with a smile on his lips that he doesn't know how to interpret, something on the line between gentle fondness and desire to tight his grip around them and remove them completely from the rest of the world.

He can feel his gaze indulging on him, stripping him naked of all his defenses and leaving him exposed, so he doesn't look back at him, but keeps his eyes on the plate, sometimes catching Abigail staring at them and then smiling too. 

Hannibal is pleased when, after taking a deep breath and emptying his glass of wine, they finally make eye contact: he tries to be reassuring and normal, the perfect image of a regular man having dinner with his family, when, in reality, there's a danger hiding behind it and Will can feel it on his skin and taste it in his mouth. 

Family, what a strange, strange word to define what they have, what they are: it doesn't seem to have a real meaning, it sounds empty and shallow to his ears; Will repeats it in his mind over and over, but the feeling doesn't change. It still feels wrong, ill-fitted and distant, something he can't bring himself to embrace.

After dinner, they sit in front on the fire on Hannibal's couch: he feels tired and sleepy and tries to resist the desire to put his head on his shoulder, close his eyes and just rest there, falling asleep with the hot fire warming him and the other man all around him. But he can't bring himself to do it; something that resembles sudden shyness strikes him where he is: he feels self conscious, incredibly aware of every movement he makes. 

And still, Will can't help but shiver when Hannibal's cold hand slide on his own, caressing the fingers, the back of it, his wrist, circling it almost lovingly, while Abigail silently pretends not to be watching them, even though they both can feel her fast glimpses.

He can't tell if she's embarrassed or curious or a peculiar combinations of the two: her eyes shine in the half dark room, her white hands seem so incredibly bright against her dark clothes and he can't help but stare at them, at the way they curve and flex. There's a soft calm radiating from her, a shield of ease that could fool anyone except them: under, he can see something moving and stirring with every look they exchange, with every new smile that passes between them.

Hannibal keeps his hand on Will's wrist and then caresses Abigail's hair gently, almost lovingly, in a gesture that doesn't quite fit with the rest of him and that seems to create an alteration in his perception of him: the shadows that come with him, that Will can see all the time, fade somehow, aren't as menacing as before. When he kisses his temple and inhales his scent, his lips are still ice cold, but less hard. 

Will can hear Abigail take a deep breath and then look away from them.

Hannibal convinces Abigail to go to bed, pointing at the tired look in her eyes and the hard days she has in front of her: they stay in the little study for a while more, drinking his expensive liquor, but remaining in silence, with Will keeping his eyes on the fire until they hurt, closing them for a while and then repeating the operation all over again to keep his mind awake. Will can feel Hannibal's hand on his thigh, caressing it through the material of his trousers and making him shiver involuntary.

The look in his eyes is predatory and hungry, the red flames reflecting in his orbs and he has to bite his lips not to moan out loud and lean in to kiss him hard, even though he can feel his body painfully aching with desire.

The man persuades him to stay the night, hugs him from behind and slides a hand on his chest, whispering in his ear until he nods and follows him to the bedroom after finishing another glass of whiskey. His head is light and dizzy, his hands shake when they go to rest on his shoulders and they to weakly try to push him away when he's pushed against the closed door. But Hannibal kisses him, silencing his protests, his mouth pressing deep and strong against his.

“Abigail... in the other room...”

His mouth feels dry and his eyes are heavy; he doesn't want Hannibal to stop touching him, it feels good to be in his arms, to feel his hands on his body. He still tries for a while, but accepts defeat quicker than he probably should. The man shushes him gently, his tongue following his lower lips before biting it.

“She is most likely already asleep. The day was long and she was very tired.”

But what if she's not? He thinks; he can see her awake in her room, lying on the bed with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to their muffled sounds slipping through the walls; Will cannot say if the idea horrifies or arouses him.

He still lets Hannibal's hands slip under his shirt, pressing on his hipbones and kissing him again and again, until he's left pliant and weak in his arms, until he's breathless and moans softly against his lips.

Will lets go because the feelings running through his body right now are like a soft blanket wrapped around his body, dragging him down and smothering his protests.

Hannibal suddenly grabs him hard and pushes him on the bed, making him sit on it while he opens his pants and takes out his half hard cock; Will curls his fingers around it and strokes it a couple of time, receiving an approving look from the man above him, who smiles and starts to slowly take off his jacket.

Will watches him for a long, long moment, while still moving his hand, feeling his cock hardening in it; the smile he reads on his face is at the same time honey dripped all over him and cold ice that chills him to the bones: it's a mix of sensations that make him moan while imagining all the things Hannibal could do to him with that smile still perfectly on, unmoved and unfazed.

He starts to kiss the exposed skin of his pubes, while the man keeps undressing, his other hand going to rest on his hip, caressing it over the fine material of his trousers; then begins to lick his cock, circling the tip with his tongue before wrapping his mouth around it; Hannibal inhales deeply, but he's still calm and perfectly in control, while Will starts to wreck when he runs a hand through his hair and then on his neck, letting him be free to move as he wishes, but reminding him who is holding the reins.

Will forgets the world around him too easily when they're together, lets it slip away and sinks in the memories of them, of their pasts that melt and confuse and combine in front of his eyes, leaving him breathless and wanting desperately to be touched, to be taken and used until he'll be nothing but another shadow, nothing but a sated shell.

Hannibal senses his thoughts and pets him gently while Will sucks his dick, lets out a couple of sighs of encouragement and he can feel his cheeks heat; presses his nail in the soft flesh of his hips to remind him that he still has sharp claws. Hannibal smiles at that and pulls his hair, making him moan.

Then pushes him on the bed; Will closes his eyes and everything, everyone that is not them fades away.

\-----

Will sometimes stares at Abigail and tries to imagine what's going on inside her head, what she thinks about when she curls on Hannibal's sofa after dinner, the other man away doing the dishes and rearranging the kitchen, while they wait for him: her eyes seems to stare beyond them, into the dark corners of the room, her breaths soft and measured.

She licks her lips once or twice and he wonders if she's dreaming or if she's seeing something that comes from another world, glimpses of long lost memories coming back to her and leaving her unable to look away or to awake herself from the deep slumber that fell on her body.

Will wants to touch the hand that rests on the pillow, wants to see if it's cold or warm: if she feels alive or dead, because sometimes he doesn't know, he can't tell; sometimes she gives him the same feelings Hannibal does.

A sweet scent of death and decay in the air, the cold breaths of death on his face, the feeling of skeletal fingers sliding their exposed bones all over his skin; he shivers and doesn't move, keeps looking at her until she turns to face him: Abigail smiles at him, softly, her eyes bright.

She leans into the touch when Hannibal arrives and gently caresses her hair, before sitting down; always between them, because he wants both to curl at his sides, so he can have them close and control everything. Will keeps some distance though, allows the man to touch him, but rarely reciprocates, a suddenly anxiety gripping him and stunning his reactions.

He never moves away, not even when Hannibal kisses his neck, just one soft kiss, enough to make him bite his lips, not trusting himself not to make any sound, but doesn't hold him there like he would he they were alone; he looks at Abigail and an ill feeling crushes over him when he sees she's still smiling.

She looks at them like they're something special and rare only she's allowed to witness and it makes her feel proud for some reasons; Hannibal has, apparently, no problems with all of this, maybe even enjoys putting Will almost on display and play with his emotions as much as he plays with his body.

Abigail kisses them both on the cheek before going to bed; Will closes his eyes and inhales her scent of expensive bath foam and perfume for a second. Hannibal's eyes shine red in the dark around them and he feels his body respond to the way they look at him, even though he wishes he could stop himself from doing it.

But it's something he cannot control, that he can never stop, no matter how much time, space and lives pass between them, no matter how used to his touches he becomes: every time feels new, different, like it never happened before and he doesn't have marks and bruises that prove otherwise.

Will feels trapped in a web, thick and sticky that attaches itself to his skin, and surrounds his body and caresses his skin all over, almost gentle while it strangles him; Hannibal is a sweet and soothing death, but violent and intense at the same time, it leaves deep and bloody cuts on him and then kisses them clean. He's overwhelmed, but still longing for more.

Hannibal fucks him hard when he stays over, not paying any attention to the fact that Abigail may hear them: her room is on other side of the corridor, but sometimes Will is sure the whole town can hear him trash and moan and scream while the man pounds into him. His lungs hurts, his throat is sore and it's not nearly enough, still not what he needs.

He claws at Hannibal's back, bites his neck and caresses his face, needs to feel his skin under his hands desperately, needs that contact more than anything and can't live without it; Hannibal marks him, fucks him, owns him and Will can't do anything but take it, beg for more to come, prays on his hands and knees to be given what he craves. The man smiles at him, runs his fingers on his cheeks and on his neck, pushes more and more inside him until he's not sure he's still breathing, if he can still breath or if he's left dead on the bed, just a body with no soul anymore.

People at work stare at his bruises, whisper behind his back, point at him and sometimes even laugh, but he doesn't care, he can barely hear or see them: he touches and presses against the marks on his skin and remembers how good it felt when Hannibal did them to him, longs to feel it again and again.

Will pretends to be normal, to be a common man every single day of his life, every morning he puts on a mask and faces the world and only takes it off when Hannibal puts his arms around him and owns him. It's exhausting, fighting against so much, it wears him thin and makes him feel weak and broken; he wonders if it wouldn't be simpler to just forget, to go to sleep and never wake up again, asks himself why he endures all this pain and fatigue every day.

The answer, in the end, tastes like Hannibal's kisses.

\---  
Abigail comes to visit him in Wolf's Trap sometimes, appearing on his doorstep smiling and holding a brown bag filled with the delicious food she and Hannibal prepared for him. Will always lets her in, watches the dogs pool around her as she scratches and caresses them like she belongs there with them; it's strange to see her like this, so happy and young. It makes his heart ache, to think how different she looks away from Hannibal's house and everything that comes with that place.

The spend their time together barely speaking, sometimes not even in the same room together: Abigail plays with his dog, takes walks outside with them tailing along and sometimes with Will following in silence and keeping his distance, watching them from afar. It doesn't feel right somehow, to witness something so beautiful and peaceful and having a heavy weight in his heart while looking at it; trying to imprint the memory of that in his brain, but at the same time fighting the impulse to look away and forget it all. 

Abigail's laugh echoes in the emptiness around them, fills the silence and makes him feel more alone than ever before, because he'll never feel like that again, free and able to smile, because now he's chained to something dark and powerful that will never let him go.

Will remembers how he used to be, remembers the sun shining on his face, blessing him with its warmth: he thought he was happy, but it was a lie, a golden and sugar coated lie.

He was attached to something different, to someone different: someone who loved him too much to let him be fully himself, who wanted to protect him from what he was and is, to change him completely. 

Hannibal didn't cut his ropes, didn't broke the chains: he gave him the scissors and the keys and let him decide if he wanted to remain where he was, there, in a golden cage of fake happiness, isolation and loneliness, or if he wanted to be what he was always meant to be, if he wanted to taste death and destruction in his mouth and blood on his hands and enjoy it without having that staggering feel of guilt and shame that used to grip his throat and cut off his air .

He embraced a bloodstained peace of mind that made him savor his darkest sides of his mind and unleashed the demon inside him.

If Abigail can sense his thoughts, she says nothing about it; she just stares at him quietly, the hint of a smile on her lips. They can spend hours like this, with Will reviewing a case and the girl playing with the dogs or reading a book she brought with her from home; she makes him tea and his house fills with the sounds she makes.

He shows her how to make fishing lures, observing her delicate fingers work with the same fascination he reserves to Hannibal's big and strong hands while he cooks or serves dinner.

Sometimes she rests an hand on his thigh and examines his face from up close while he's looking away; or leaves her fingers on his for a moment too long and when Will turns to face her, she smiles in a way that makes his skin curl half in uneasiness half in curiosity for what she could do next if he allowed it.

Her eyes shine with an ill light behind them, something threatening and malicious that would make other men look away and start to sweat; he doesn't blink or flinch. She took it all from Hannibal, from his ability to bring people on their hands and knees, including him, when he's tired enough to allow everything, with a simple look.

But she's still young, her eyes don't hold enough power to compel and break yet, not enough to work on him anyway; Will wonders what other weapons she'd be willing to use to achieve her goals and get what she wants. In the end, Abigail always backs away, she never pushes forward; and he pretends to forget these moments.

He drives her home and stays for dinner; Hannibal looks at both of them with a soft and wicked amusement in his eyes, kisses him hard on the mouth when they're alone in the kitchen and smells him, nose buried in his neck, teeth scraping against his soft skin, right above his pulsing veins; Will shivers in his arms and grabs his shoulders to bring him closer.

Hannibal laughs and the vibrations through his body make him sigh and inhale deeply; when the man lets him go, Will smiles back at him and kisses him again, pushes him against the fridge and allows his hands to travel all over his back, fingers dancing on the curve of his ass.

It's possessive and sensual, the way they play through touches and kisses, leaving faint or deep marks on each other, sharing so much, maybe too much, but still wanting more, much more they almost lose control; but then Hannibal caresses his cheek, with a faint hint of nails, and recovers his usual composure, smiling calm, like nothing happened. 

"I hope you have enjoyed your day."

Will doesn't know if he wants to laugh or turn his head away in shame, caught up in a sudden guilt he tries to fight, but that overcomes him; in the end, he does nothing, he simply nods and goes back to help him. Hannibal's eyes follow him, his every movement, examine his face and Will sees him licking his lips and smile predatory. He can sense his hunger in his eyes, can feel it on his skin, it resonates in the air around him.

After dinner, when Abigail bids them goodnight, the man slides a hand on her back, inhales her scent like he did with him, nose pressing lightly against the curve of her pale and fragile throat, his other hand tangled in the hair at the base of her neck: he could snap it effortlessly, without even thinking about it; it'd be clean, merciful, maybe she wouldn't even realize it... the thought sends a cold breath of fear down his spine and Will unconsciously licks his lips and leans forward on the couch. 

Abigail locks her eyes to Will's, smiles and on her lips, he sees Hannibal's expression, his cruelty, and his desire, his need to control and manipulate them until they'll be exactly like he wants them to be. Beautiful and deadly and ready to worship him on their hands and knees, desperate to please him, but still threatening to him too, with a mouth ready to bite back and with teeth red with fresh blood.

He kisses her cheek almost lovingly: the gesture of tightening his grip around her throat is so subtle and fast Will can pretend he imagined it; but he didn't and neither did Abigail. And then lets her go and the girls looks a bit dizzy after, her eyes slightly unfocused and wide, but doesn't stop smiling. Neither of them does. They keep their eyes on him and lick their lips almost at the same time; like they are wondering if they want to eat him now or let him simmer and cook for a while longer.

And Will feels surrounded and trapped, but not like a hopeless prisoner, a victim deprived of all his strength; more like a caged wild beast, ready to lash out and devour his captors if they don't handle him with enough care and attention: if they come too close to the reach of his claws and of his teeth. He feels dangerous and on the edge, but a part of him is enjoying this silent game of smiles, hints and shadows on the wall.

And he perfectly knows how to play it.

\-----

Somehow, deep inside his heart, Will always knew this peace couldn't last, that the calm around him and this unusual and broken family he and Hannibal managed to put together, were going to be shattered to pieces and end sooner or later.

The flow changes when you least expect it to, takes directions one simply cannot hope to control; and the flood that follows is devastating and terrible, leaves nothing but destruction behind it.

One day, instead of being greeted by his students, he finds the class empty and Jack there waiting for him, a satisfied smile on his face; Will can already feel that he's starting to sweat but takes a deep breath and bravely walks toward the man.

“We may have a lead on the Ripper.”

Will is sure his heart stopped beating for a moment, that it went completely still, his breath stuck in his lungs and in his throat; when he breathes again, he has to use all his self control not to fall to his knees and succumb to the panic that is filling him; he closes his eyes for a second, glad for the fact that Jack is on the phone again and not looking at him.

His first instinct is to run, run away from there, to Hannibal's house, grab him and Abigail and disappear with them as fast as they can, leaving everything behind forever... but he knows he can't do that, not unless there's no other choice, not until he knows exactly what's going on...

When Jack puts an hand on his shoulder, he's so startled he has to take a couple of steps back and the man looks suspiciously at him, more annoyed than watchful, and he tries to take another deep breath to recover some control and not give himself away. Because Jack is not an idiot, he's a clever man and Will is almost sure he could read everything inside him if he wanted.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He murmurs an apology, citing lack of sleep and too much coffee and the man seems to buy it.

“We are going back to my office, we have a lot of papers to go through and I need your insight there.”

“What... what is this new lead?”

Will tries to make his voice sound sure and normal, while they walk through the corridors, again barely resisting the urge to run away; a million images pass in front of his eyes: Hannibal handcuffed and taken away, and the handcuffs look like chains in his head, Abigail in tears, the man locked up in a cell far away from him.

He keeps his eyes on the back of Jacks's neck and bites his lips so hard he tastes blood, nails digging in his palms until they hurt and still he cannot snap out of the vicious circle of his mind, that keeps projecting more and more apocalyptic scenarios to him: both Hannibal and Abigail gunned down, dead in their house, their blood all over the floor...

I could kill him, he thinks before he can stop himself, I could kill Jack: hit him in the back of the neck with my gun and keep going until he'll be dead, strangle him, hide the body and then run away... I could do that... but...

But he knows he will not, knows he could never bring himself to kill the man, no matter how different he is now, how twisted, or how much Hannibal has changed him. So he just keeps walking and breathes as deeply as he can.

“Miriam Lass' mother finally decided to clean her daughter's room and found a few old files she had left at her parent's house the last time she went to visit and that no one new they were there until now. We thought she had everything in her apartment; among the documents she gave us, there were a few of her personal researches on the Ripper and a list of the doctors she was planning to interview. Some were crossed out, probably the one she had already excluded, so we're going to investigate the others and maybe, just maybe, we could be lucky and find the son of a bitch in there. I want you to go through the rest of the papers while we start.”

Will weakly nods, feels his legs moving independently from the control of his mind: he can't believe he's still standing, considering the pure panic he feels, but if he gave into it, Jack would suspect, he would give himself and Hannibal away; he needs to stay calm, to breathe and put on his shields, his armor of shadows and darkness to hide what breaks inside his heart.

The list is long, three pages of names accurately typed: for a moment, he closes his eyes, tries not to look, not to see, hopes that he will not find what his eyes dread to spot on the piece of paper he's holding; but when he opens them, he just can't help but being drawn to it, to the two words that make his mind go blank and his heart fill with a mix of anger, fear and worry.

Hannibal's name is on the second page, loud and clear, screaming guilt at him, forcing him to face what he has done and what he keeps doing, blaming him for his silence; Will feels detached from everything around him, feel a grip of iron and ice around his heart, slowing its beating and making his head spin.

He tries to work like nothing is happening, like he's not surrounded by people who could find them out any second, who could destroy everything he has built with so much blood and pain; he can't find any solace or comfort in remembering Hannibal's words, in his reassurances that nothing will happen to them. All he can think about are images of a terrible doom about to crash over them and leave only devastation behind.

Jack doesn't bring up the fact that Hannibal could be a suspect and neither does Will; he stares for a long time at the back of the man's neck, imagines sliding a knife through it, killing him and then running away still covered in blood and gore: maybe he'd even lick some of it away from his slippery fingers, the taste would spread in his mouth and he'd remember it forever.

He feels sicks, wrong, alienated. He doesn't feel like himself; it's the other part of him talking and acting, the one that would let the whole world burn just to keep his family safe, just to keep what he has now, one that is too greedy and unwilling to let go no matter what it'll cost, no matter what it takes and who he'll have to sacrifice on the altar of this love. Will works, breathes, fakes, lies, dreads and lives with a stunning fear buried inside him, crippling his mind and not making him see clear.

He prays, silently, for all this to just go away and disappear, for a safety none of them deserve, because there's innocent blood on their hands and death in their hearts, but nothing stops Will from clinging to the only safe harbor he ever had in his life, to this damaged and poisonous cult that wrapped its hands tight around him and estranged him from the world, but that is everything to him.

When Jack finally allows him to go home, he starts driving towards Baltimore, but has to stop the car after a few minutes because he's shaking too hard now that he's alone, and cannot control his nerves anymore; Will stumbles out and vomits the little he had in his stomach on the side of the road, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and a terribly foul taste spreading in his mouth as he tries to hold the bile back.

For a few long minutes, he just breathes in and out, trying to calm down; but the lack of hope he feels is suffocating and intoxicating, crushes his chest like the wings of a bird.

Once back in the car, Will drinks some water to wash away the aftertaste of vomit from his mouth, inhaling heavily and pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, feeling it cold and hard against his skin, feeling his whole body splitted in two: the desire to flee as far away as he can from everything, including Hannibal, and the need to see him, to yell at him or to abandon himself against him, he doesn't know yet. His heart is a battleground and things are moving to fast behind his closed eyes for him to grasp and understand them; Will can't see, can't focus; there's only pitch black emptiness around him.

And it's swallowing him whole.

\-----

Will doesn't bother knocking; he uses his key and shuts the door closed so hard he can feel his teeth rattle. He knows he's being terribly rude, knows that Hannibal has killed for less: he doesn't care. His nerves are too wrecked for him to be even remotely interested in what the other man might think; all he wants is to find him and let out all the poison he has inside.

He finds them in the kitchen, Hannibal and Abigail, standing close together while cooking. Cooking... he stares at the red and bloody meat in front of him for a long time, feeling the need to throw up again, until he realizes it's rabbit, just rabbit... normal meat, nothing that may stuff new nightmares and horrors into his abused mind.

Hannibal is frowning and Abigail looks worried when he takes his eyes back on them, still breathing too heavily and fast for it to be normal and healthy; he's almost hyperventilating and his vision is slightly blurred.

“I need to talk to Hannibal alone.”

Will speaks before Hannibal can, cutting his words, looking straight in his eyes without flinching or looking away; Abigail hesitates for a moment, but then the man nods and she slips out of the room in silence: Will tries not to feel bad for scaring her, for making her worry, but right now he can't think straight.

“Will. It was very rude of you to burst in here like you just did; but I imagine your sudden lack of manners has a reason, so, let us hear it.”

“Jack came to me today, they... we... have a lead on the Ripper. A lead that may bring the FBI right to your door if they find anything or just have even the smallest suspect you may be involved!”

Hannibal says nothing; he inhales deeply and cleans his hands on a towel, eyes fixed on Will, never leaving him or allowing him to look away. He's so calm, he thinks, how can he be so calm, how can he just stand there and stare at me like I said nothing. Like nothing is about to go down, like our life couldn't be ruined any second.

Will wants to scream and hit him, generate some kind of reaction in the other man; but he just stays still and digs his nail in his palms until they hurt.

“You are agitated, allow me to pour you a glass of water...”

“I don't want it!” His voice is sudden too high and for a split second he can see Hannibal's eyes go red with a dangerous anger. “ I want you to listen to me! Jack is out for blood and if he smells your track... you're done! We are done!”

“Will, I told you already you have nothing to worry about.”

Will lets out a humorless and nervous laugh and has to grab the counter to support himself.

“Right, sure, fine. Then tell me, are you still gonna say that when you'll be in jail, with Abigail in the cell next to yours and me God only knows where? You said it yourself, you wouldn't say no to the experience! This could destroy everything and you just... you just stand there like nothing happened! It's like you don't care!”

Hannibal's face seems to be carved in marble, emotionless and cold, but Will is not fooled: he can see him, always, even when the man would like to hide away from his eyes; Will can see and feel his rage, the distortions moving behind him in a oily mass of nightmares and monsters. His eyes are red as blood now and in them he can read pure evil. The thrill he feels makes him want to be sick, instead he's almost aroused.

“You don't care, that's the truth. You think no one will be ever able to touch you, to break the idyl you have built for yourself. Hannibal Lecter, the untouchable god of the dead; you dwell in your... illusion of grandeur, so full of yourself you can't see anything else! You don't care about me, about Abigail, about what may happen to us!”

Will takes a deep breath after that and looks away, takes his face in his hands and presses his fingers hard against his temples until he moans in pain.

“Be very careful of what you say, Will. You may not want to see what happens when you push me too far, you know I'm capable of a great deal of cruelty when enraged.”

He's suddenly much closer than Will remembered him being just a moment ago, looking down on him, his eyes frightening and his lips thin; Hannibal wants to break his neck and gently cuddle his dead body after, wants to cut him open piece by piece and watch him bleed out, kissing his wounds when he's done: Will can see the knife he's holding and swallows. Self preservation would have him apologize to him, bow down at his feet and beg forgiveness, cry on his shoulder until his eyes will be dry forever.

So, of course, he does the exact opposite: he laughs almost maniacally.

“What I want is for you to fix your mess! Find a way! I don't care what you do! You know, I thought about killing Jack today, for the first time in my life I thought about killing him, just to buy us some time to... disappear. This is what you've made of me! I'm a monster, I did horrible things and I deserve punishment, but I don't want it! I want you to put things right!”

He doesn't take a step back or move away from him: he stays still and waits.

“Unless, of course, you can't do that because you're all lies and bullshit...”

Hannibal knocks words and air out of him when he pushes him hard against the fridge, making him gasp and try to cling to him to fight him off, but he can't, the grip is too hard and he's caught off guard and balance.

Will looks at him and he doesn't think he has ever seen him like this, so furious and cruel, so ready to kill him of all people: this is what the dead see, this is the monster they meet and I always knew what he looked like, I just... I just kept on looking away. He knows he would not give him to the impulse of hurting him, bur for a long, long moment, his face is distorted in an evil mask that terrifies him, but at the same time generates an attraction in him that he can't deny.

Hannibal wants to say something, the words are on his lips, but, he doesn't trust his voice right now; Will can feel the blade of the knife pressing against his belly on the non-sharpened side, but it still makes him moan softly despite himself. He likes this, loves how out of control Hannibal is, how wild and devastating the feelings that ooze out from his body are, they slip inside him, melt away his panic and his fears and morph them into something edgy and savage; Will can slide inside his head, deep into the recesses of his mind and sees a phantasmagoria of terrible images, of mutilated bodies that have faces he vaguely recognize, familiar shapes torn apart and bleeding out at someone’s feet.

At his feet. Will smiles in spite of himself, smiles and licks his lips.

Hannibal tries to pull away, his eyes going slightly wider when he feels Will moving inside his mind, soaking up his darkness and showing it back to him like a mirror, but he grabs his wrist hard, pressing the knife even harder between their bodies; he hears the man hiss and then return the crooked smile he's giving him.

“Do you want to kill me? Be honest...”

Hannibal licks his lips hungrily, eyes fixated on his mouth, deciding and pondering his words.

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I want to devour you whole, Will, eat your fresh still raw, bites it off, suck the marrow from your bones, polishing and cleaning them until they'll be a perfect work of art. And I will keep them forever close to my heart...”

He moans, can't help it, the image is so erotic he can feel his dick grow harder and harder between their bodies.

Will slides a finger over the blade and cries out in pleasure and pain when it cuts, feeling the blood slippery and wet all over the cold steel, savoring the pain, making it cut deeper and more blood run free; Hannibal takes a very, very deep breath and the sight of what he's doing distracts him enough for Will to take the knife away from him and press it against his throat. The man's smile becomes bigger and wider, less dangerous, more curious and pleased, the kind he gives him when Will reveals his darkest side to him and he likes what he sees.

Hannibal looks at the blade against his skin, almost piercing through it, then back at him; Will wants to cut him and kiss him, wants to kill him and fuck him, needs to feel Hannibal inside him and at the same time wants to open him up, break the ribs and then put his face in the bloody and exposed cavity of his chest, right where his heart is, still beating fast, the man still breathing, the internal sounds of his body overwhelming and filling his ears.

The blade breaks the soft and vulnerable neck, making a thin, red line appear on it, blood dripping on Hannibal's immaculate shirt, running under the cotton in a small river that makes Will salivate with the desire to lick it away, to bite on the wound and open it even more; Hannibal grabs his wrist hard and he flinches, surprised by the sudden feel of those icy fingers pressing against his too hot body.

The man brings the knife to his lips and his tongue flicks out, lapping their mixed bloods and then he kisses him, making him taste them too; Will lets the knife go and its clanging sound echoes into the room together with their harsh and fast breaths. The kiss is brutal and hard, lips and teeth smashing against each other, making him moan and whimper. 

Will puts his hands into Hannibal's hair, smearing them with blood, feeling his body trapping him against the fridge, pushing against it almost desperately, making him feel the pressure of his erection against his hipbone: they're both hard, bloody and starving for more. Will feels his anger and arousal pulsing into his vein, burning like acid, igniting a wild fire inside him that makes him see red, that makes him want to maul Hannibal's mouth and neck until he'll taste his flesh.

Hannibal groans when he pulls his hair hard enough to bruise his roots, his nails dig into his hips under his shirt; they kiss again and again, until Will feels his lungs on fire and his head light for the lack of oxygen, until Hannibal's eyes are half closed and his breath is ragged and there's something dark and red that burns behind him like a furnace, that slides on his exposed chest – Will can't even recall when the man opened his shirt, he was too caught up in the moment – can taste it in his mouth and it makes him exhale desperately.

Will gets on top of the kitchen island and Hannibal slips between his spread legs, grabbing his thigh so hard it hurts, biting his exposed neck with a possessive strength, rising until he meets his lips again; he knows they shouldn't be doing this, a rational part of his mind fights against the desires of this body, against the strength of his arousal, wants to slap him in the face and screams at him to stop touching Hannibal.

But he can't; he grabs Hannibal's hair again and licks the wound on his neck, sucks the blood from it, smearing it on his lips and cheek, moaning when he groans like a wild beast, like a starving man, looks at him like he wants to break him and tore him apart.

Like he's a delicious meal prepared in especially for him and for his sole consumption; their kisses are brutal, all teeth and tongue, with blood in their mouth that cancels any other taste, while passion blinds them and they can't do anything but move frantically against each other: Will opens his shirt not caring about breaking the fabric, receiving another dangerous look from the other man, but neither wants to stop or cares about anything but the contact of skin against skin.

Will can't think straight, adrenaline rushing through his brain, making his body shake and tremble against the other man, rage and lust blinding him; he runs his nail on Hannibal's partially exposed chest, while the man tries to free their erections, and is rewarded by another hard kiss and barely contained moans: with no lube at hand, all they can do is keep rutting their hips together, panting in each other's mouths, feeling the heat of their bodies mixing and overwhelming them.

“Will... oh, Will...”

Hannibal tries to cup his face, but Will can't stand those gentle touches now: they feel ill and wrong and he needs it hard and brutal; his hands go back to pull his hair and the man above him has to bite his lips to conceal the terrible sound that was about to escape them.

“No, shut up! Don't... don't say my name! Don't talk! Don't say a word!”

Hannibal smiles, smiles, smiles! He looks pleased, almost happy as Will roughly manhandles him, as he vomits his anger all over him; then kisses him again and all he wants to do is take the knife again and stab him until he'll die, until he'll be only a ruined mass of flesh and broken bones.

There's something primal about being able to control Hannibal and at the same to feel owned by him, to hurt him and receive delicious pain in return; it reminds him of old wars between gods, of how sweet that blood was in his mouth. He was surrounded by death and decadence and lived in a palace made of human bones, used to walk on the battlefields and laugh at the dead and the dying, at the wounded, the maimed, because he was pure destruction and the taste of all that immense power is impossible to forget.

Hannibal still had his shadows, his monsters, that followed him everywhere, had the power to find the souls to the eternal pits of the abyss, and Will had the destructive power of death and rebirth, shining through the layers of darkness that he had wrapped himself into.

Will wants to hold him as close as he can, wants to feel him buried deep inside his body; he's almost aching for it and the friction between them is not enough, not even nearly, it leaves him hungry and desperate. He still comes, Hannibal's hand wrapped around their erection, his finger buries in his exposed arms until the man kisses him again: they have blood on their clothes, in their hair, on their skin, but it feels so good to be owned and to own, to maul and feel teeth breaking more and opening new wounds.

Hannibal holds him through his orgasm, massages his back and shudders hard in his arms when he follows, his forehead pressed on his shoulders and moaning; Will kisses his damp temple and lets out a shaky and painful breath.

He closes his eyes and breaths in the scent of blood around them.

\---  
Will doesn't look at him while they're recollecting themselves and trying to put some order in the mess they have made; he keeps his eyes down while he cleans himself with a wet cloth, washing his hands and reassessing his clothes.

There's so much silence now around them, the stillness that follows the storm. It gives him unpleasant chills.

“I... I need some time, a few days alone. I just... need to think about everything. I can't go on like this, not... being able to know how things are working out.”

His voice comes out low and unsure; Hannibal looks at him directly in the eyes and Will feels compelled to stay focused on him, like there's a spell on him and he just can't break free from it: the grip is too tight and now Hannibal has his control back in full force.

But he doesn't say anything and the expression on his face is unreadable. Will swallows and backs away when Hannibal approaches him and this gesture makes the man stop. He smiles though, but it's an empty smile, something almost forced and Will tries so hard not to feel guilty he almost manages to fool himself.

Why he feels like this, prone to apologize for mistakes that are not his own, for sins that don't fall on him he doesn't know; maybe it's power of this terrible and eternal link he has with Hannibal, this hanging rope, this sword on his head: it never lets him go and it twists everything.

In the end, the man just nods and walks away from him, his shirt hanging askew and messy on him, but he's still so controlled and so steady; unlike him, he feels like a complete disaster.

“I understand.”

The taste of blood is still so strong in his mouth and Will wonders if it'll ever go away; he stares at the cut on the man's neck and wants to lick and open it again, remembers the power he felt while the knife was in his hand, pressing against the tender and exposed flesh of his throat, but also the emptiness that would have followed if he had really acted upon his dark desires.

This love I feel will kill me, always ends up killing me, leaves me drowning in pools of blood, crushes my ribcage and lungs and all I can do is close my eyes, smile and take it once again.

Wills nods too, and in his mind he want to cover the distance between them and kiss him, let Hannibal hold him close and chase away the ache he feels deep in his bones; but he can't, he needs to stay away, because the other man is a poisonous god and he's intoxicated to the point of being unable to feel his own body and mind.

So he just collects his things and exits the room in silence, Hannibal's eyes glued to his back.

He doesn't see Abigail anywhere and fights the need to go look for her and apologize for how he acted, to hold her hands and let her calm slip inside him and clean his soul; but the physical need to breathe fresh air is stronger and he just leaves instead, the house silent as a tomb around him, closing him in shadows and whispering in his ears.

Will closes his eyes and ignores the voices that surround him, only opening them again when he's outside.

\-----

Once at home, he feeds his dogs mechanically, barely registering their presence in the same room; they sense blood and cruelty on him, smell it on his skin and stay away; he'll feel this other guilt tomorrow.

Will takes a shower and the water is red as it runs down the drain, red and deep and dirty just like he is; he wants almost to cry, but his eyes are dry, his heart is empty and he's so tired, so tired...

He just wants to close his eyes and rest.

But when he gets down to bed, of course, he can't fall asleep.

Will stares at the ceiling and sees Hannibal's terrible eyes reflected in the gray above him, sees his blood gushing from his neck, sees him cut open for him. And sees himself in the same way, ready to be eaten, to disappear and become part of him.

Will looks at the ceiling for hours, long, long hours and only manages to fall asleep when dawn creeps in from the windows...


	2. Firebird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.I don't even know how to apologize for taking so long with this; it's like the chapter just didn't want to come out the right way at all and I had soooo much troubles finishing it. I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but, at least, you can have the update. I promise I'll do everything I can to be faster, I swear I'll try! Sorry again you all!  
> 2\. The title of this part refers to the festivities in honor of the god Dionysus and also, minorly, to the play by Euripides.  
> 3\. I reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally want to thank all my readers! You are simple AMAZING!!! AND SUPPORT ME SO MUCH!!! I LOVE YOU ALL!! I have a tumblr (samiferist ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd loooooooove it! ^^  
> 4\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 5\. I love comments!

Time seems to slow down for Will when he's alone, when he has nothing to look forward to during the day and the hours drag by, making his body itch and feel terribly restless.

During the first week after the fight between him and Hannibal, he's still high on the adrenaline from it, his body pumping it hard in his veins, together with the subtle panic caused by the still ongoing investigation at the FBI that makes him watchful and attentive, following Jack's every move like a hawk.

But when all the material has been investigated, all the doctors on the list interviewed and thoughtfully controlled, the trail finally goes cold; and Will can finally breath again, feeling his lungs free and his head emptied of the heavy weight that was oppressing them. Hannibal was not interrogated at all; the morning after their ugly discussion, he simply walked into Jack's office and couldn't even find his name of the list anymore: every trace of his possible involvement was perfectly erased.

He had been unable to stop the smile that had curved his lips at the sight of that, pride spreading inside his chest because Hannibal had listened to him; no, he had obeyed him and the power he had felt right there in the ugly and claustrophobic room had been absolute and made his head spin and his skin curl pleasantly on his bones.

Because he's in control, he holds the reins for now and he'll not bow or lower his head. This is the main reason why he refuses to be the first one to break the silence between them: no matter how strong the desire to call him, go to his house and see him is, Will stays strong and doesn't submit. Hannibal seems to respect his request for space and makes no attempts to contact him either. So they just weight each other, measuring how far this rope can be stretched before it breaks, before one of then will just not be able to resist anymore and will give in to that need.

Will spends his evenings walking his dogs around Wolf's Trap, reading every book he finds around the house, some bought ages ago and never even opened, rereading some of his favorites and making fishing lures. He's reduced to eat takeouts and precooked meals again, feels lonely and cranky, but the sense of control and defiance he feels tastes so sweet in his mouth he can't even imagine to surrender. 

Let Hannibal be the one to make the first step this time, he thinks one night while he's curled on his bed, buried under the covers, with his dogs breathing slowly at his feet, unable to put his mind to rest and sleep. He's feeling too much space and emptiness around him: he's cold, his body misses the contact with Hannibal's and his heart longs to see him.

He also misses Abigail, but the girl too makes no appearance for now; both of them stay away, accepting their current position even though they probably hate every second of it. Or at least Will hopes so: he hopes Hannibal is feeling his absence as much as he does.

The bruises, scratches and bite marks on his body fade and then start to disappear completely, leaving his skin bare and clean; Will struggles with himself to admit that he misses them, misses the shoots of pain he feels pressing on them when he needs an anchor to reality when his mind drifts away and he's lost in the dark places he's forced to visit because of Jack and his work. Will stands in front of the mirror one night and touches the yellowish marks, runs his fingers on the healed signs of ownership Hannibal likes to decorate his skin with, scratches the few scabs left until a couple start to bleed again and he bites his lips not to moan out loud.

He sleeps poorly, sometimes he doesn't sleep at all, spends hours staring at the ceiling or at his phone, fighting the impulse to take it and call, secretly disappointed when no call comes and he's left like this, all alone; just like he asked. It doesn't help to know that. When he does manage to get a few hours of rest, he wakes up all sweaty and shaking, his limbs entangled in the damp sheets, the room suddenly too cold against his feverish and hot skin. 

Dark thoughts pass through his mind while he's under the shower, relics of bad dreams he doesn't remember but that stick to his skin like mud that covers him from head to toe and that doesn't want to come off no matter how hard he scratches and scrubs; he imagines himself drowning there, under the splash of water, wonders if Hannibal would appear to save him if he tried.

But he doesn't do that, he does nothing but standing there until the water goes cold and he starts to shiver even harder; he sleeps better after, exhausted by the unrelenting work of his mind, by the cold he feels deep in his bones. He dreams of wastelands and empty valleys, of skeletal trees sheltering him from the pale moonlight, of figures he can't see clearly moving in the shadows. 

He senses the stag looking at him from behind the trees but can't see it, it hides from him while remaining watchful and menacing, a shadow that falls perfectly on his, covering his whole body and making him feel a stranger, separated from the world around him. But, other than that, there's nothing else: he's alone. Even in his dreams, he's left on his own devices.

Work, classes and daily activities pass in a greyish blur, in a colorless mess of routines that starts to wear him thin, to make him feel too exposed, deprived of the veil that protected him. He can still feel Hannibal all around him, in everything he does, senses his eyes locked on his back, his icy breath on his neck. But his claws are no longer digging in his flesh, his hands don't leave bruises on him anymore and he feels strangely naked without them; like the reflection he sees in the mirror is no longer really his own, but an even more distorted version of him, something he struggles to recognize.

So when he comes home one night and finally finds a message on his voice mail, it takes all his control and strength not to smile really widely at the feeling of victory mixed with relief that spreads in his heart. The message is short and only Abigail speaks, but with Hannibal's words in her mouth, asking him to come over for dinner the day after, her voice small, soft and apparently gentle while she almost pleads him to be there.

But Will can hear the subtle command there, something that makes him really smile this time, that moves something inside him; it almost makes him want to defy it, to refuse to go just to see what would happen in that case, to see if Hannibal would burst through the door with the same fury he showed him in the kitchen during their last meeting. If he closes his eyes and focuses, Will can still feel the grip of his hands, his fingers cold and cruel while they were digging into his sensitive skin and he moans with his lips pressed together.

Will takes deep, slow breaths, caresses his dogs when they surround him and brush against his legs, waits until his heart calms down before taking his phone and texting Abigail saying that he'll be there. He says nothing more and gets no reply in return.

Hannibal using Abigail to reach him may sound like a cowardly move, but Will knows better: it's a way to take his affection for the girl, all the feelings and memories that move inside him when it comes to her, and use them as a leverage, to put him in the position of being unable to refuse him. It's a clever manipulation that makes him smile for how simple and effective it is, because no matter how much he can see the game and predict moves and outcomes, he still plays it, still follows the lead and in the end finds himself in Hannibal's arms, with his fingers around his neck, in his hair, his lips cold on his, his body heavy when it pins him down on the bed.

And the point is always that he chose to be there, he made all the decisions himself freely, without any strings holding him up like a well trained puppet, and found himself right where Hannibal wanted knowing what he was doing and where he was going. Choosing him every single time, giving in to what he really, truly wanted, forgetting that there's another world outside and accepting that he doesn't care, that all he needs is to be locked inside his deadly embrace and never let go.

He sleeps better that night, curled under the blankets, not visited by dreams or nightmares; the house is quiet around him. Will still stay awake for a long time before slipping into unconsciousness: he licks his lips and closes his eyes, trying to remember the taste of Hannibal's blood, to feel its thick consistency on his tongue, his coppery flavor in the back of his throat; his body shivers and he smiles to himself when he sees red orbs and a cruel smile in his mind, when he can hear the faint and distant sound of a cold laugh in his ears.

He falls asleep feeling his lips red and wet.

\-----

Abigail welcomes him with a smile and Will is mildly, but not completely, surprised not to see Hannibal opening the door; he holds the bottle of wine he knows the man will thank him for, but not open and hands Abigail a package of chocolates she'll hide in her room. The girl's smile grows wider.

“Where is he? Can't be bothered to welcome his guests anymore?”

She laughs softly and gives him a glass of wine when they're in the living room.

“He's in the kitchen, finishing dinner. You know, I wasn't sure you were going to show up...”

Will turns around to face her and she looks different, he only now notices it: she looks sharper, more dangerous than she did before, and there's a subtle scent of blood coming from her figure. He knows he's impossible, but he can still smell it, can feel it vibrate on her body, can see stains on her that were not there before and that only appear in his mind.

He took her hunting, he thinks, but bites his lips and says nothing.

“That would've been very rude. And you said it was urgent.”

He stops for a second, drinks some wine and looks away.

“But I did think about it.”

Abigail comes closer and hovers with her head on his shoulders, not touching him, but making him feel her presence behind him, like a pale little shadow ready to follow him everywhere; Will can't decide if the thought comforts him or scares him.

They don't say anything for a long time, they stay like this, Abigail staring at his face through the mirror and Will looking at her reflection; she keeps smiling and the scent of blood grows stronger and more persistent, it clings to his clothes and his skin, slips all over his body and he feels trapped.

“I'll... go say hi. See if Hannibal needs any help.”

Abigail doesn't move, keeps staring at him until he disappears behind the corner: like a good, little lion cub, she keeps the prey under control and makes sure it'll not go too far.

Hannibal welcomes him with a raised eyebrow and an almost convincingly surprised and welcoming smile that makes his eyes shine; he examines him and then nods approvingly, making Will curse himself for having actually took the time to dig through his closet to find his best shirt, something not plaid, the same he wore at their dinner with Freddie Lounds, and his best jacket.

“Good evening, Will.”

Hannibal is checking the oven’s timer, then he takes something out of the fridge and keeps working like he's not there. Will pursues his lips and tries to pretend that the fact doesn't bother him at all, while in reality it makes him want to do something harsh just to get a reaction. Any kind of reaction, really.

“Not welcoming your guests when they arrive is quite rude, Doctor Lecter.”

Will tries to make his voice sound as casual as he can and Hannibal looks at him amused by his sudden boldness, maybe admiring the claws he's showing him, making it clear that he may be back in the lion's den, but that he has no intention to surrender or to be considered weak.

Hannibal looks at him like he's savoring every single bit of this, his body a perfect shape of tension, surprise and desire to see how far Will is willing to take this little game of chase they're playing. In the end, he nods.

“You are right of course, Will. I must apologize. But I do believe Abigail needs to start to learn how to deal with welcoming guests in my place, if she's going to keep staying here. Don't you agree?”

It's Will's time to nod and he can't keep still, keeps pacing around the room, avoiding to get too close, but still circling and glancing at him. Hannibal laughs under his breath and Will feel the sudden and basic need to kiss him right there, to press his mouth hard on his and making him moan and whimper against him.

He fixes his eyes on what Hannibal is doing, on his hands, so he doesn't have to look at his face, so he can't read the same desire on it, that would send his control to screw itself and ma him give in.

Who are we eating tonight, he wants to ask, but bites back the words, because breaking this sudden calm that established itself between them would do no good to either of them right now, it'll just ruin everything.

“Do you... need any help?”

He says instead, running an hand through his hair and then tucking it back in his pockets.

Hannibal stop and exhales, then approaches him very slowly, opening and closing his fists and Will can't help but filling his lungs deeply with air, anticipating a kiss that, however, never comes. The man simply takes a bottle of wine from the fridge, opens it and refills his empty glass, keeping a steady distance between them, never entering Will's personal space.

“There is no need, dinner is almost ready. You may go wait in the dining room if you want, or you can stay here; whichever you prefer.”

He tries to smile to him, but there are wrinkles and shadows in it that make his kindness and gentleness fake, that don't manage to cover all the holes in it and allow a sinister kind of darkness to ooze through them, something that mixes with a fiery and red need that threatens to swallow him, to bring him so close to it he'll feel the heat on his skin and start to burn.

Will drinks his wine and backs away, leaving the room to breathe again, not to feel his lungs compressed and congested by the heaviness of Hannibal's emotions, by his desire to bind him, to tie him up and take him right where they are. Because they're both too hungry and eager for it, want it so much that saying no would be impossible if even just a sparkle started to burn between them.

\-----

“I am leaving for a few days tomorrow.”

Dinner has been quiet and uneventful until then, filled with awkward silences and stolen glances, nothing too much out of the ordinary: but then Hannibal opens his mouth and speaks words that make Will's mouth feel suddenly extremely dry and swallowing the food he is still chewing so hard he has to drink some of his water to make it go down.

“What?”

Hannibal doesn't look at him, he cuts a piece of the meat in his plate and only then acknowledges his question; Abigail carefully avoids to look at both of them and stays tucked in her corner, eating slowly but without lowering her guard or missing a word of what's going on there between them.

“I was invited to present to a psychiatry convention in Roma. My plane leaves at eleven tomorrow, I asked you to come here tonight to asks you to stay with Abigail while I'm away, if it's not too much trouble.”

Will doesn't say anything for a long time, stares at him, then at the food in his plate, at the fork he still keeps in his hand and listens to his heart racing furiously; he looks back at Hannibal and has no idea of what he's supposed to do or what he's supposed to respond to his request. So he ends up drinking more wine just to have something to occupy his hands with

“I... this is very... you could have told me before.”

“You are right, but I was only invited a couple of days ago to fill in for a French colleague who canceled at the last minute. I apologize for the short notice, but I'd really appreciate it, if Abigail were not to be alone in my absence.”

“I can look after myself.”

Hannibal looks at her with an almost soft smile on his face, something that speaks of affection and care even on his marble-like features, even with those eyes that have nightmares hiding in them. She reciprocates it, while Will tries to breathe slowly.

“Of course you can, I am sure you'd be perfectly capable to stay here in your own. I'd just feel more relaxed if you weren't.”

Abigail nods and both of them turn towards Will, staring at him, both with a smile on their faces that has dangerous and dark edges in the corners.

He nods too in the end, taking another bite and pretending the matter doesn't really interest him much, like it's just small talk and nothing more.

“Well, sure then. She can stay with me at my house in Wolf's Trap...”

“I'd prefer if you stayed in my house instead. There are... some valuable artifact here and there have been a few robberies in the neighborhood in the past few months. I'm sure no one here wants to take such a risk.”

Liar, he wants to say, the word is on his lips, but he swallows it back and keeps looking at him without flinching, tries to read his face to find the truth in the wrinkles of his eyes, in the way he smiles like he knows perfectly what Will's thinking. It makes his chest feel heavy and his mouth dry.

“You can bring one or two of your dogs if you can't house all of then elsewhere. As long as they sleep in the garage, there should be no problems.”

Ah. Yes, throw me a bone, pretend you care, pretend to be the rational and responsible adult here, the kind and merciful host, so anything I'll say will make me look bad and unreasonable. It makes him want to laugh out loud, even if just to let out all the bottled tension he has inside somehow, before it chokes and kills him. Before he runs out of air in his lungs and will start to feel like he's drowning.

Hannibal's eyes run through him, inside him, piercing his layers of skin, muscles and bones, reaching his core and manipulating him just like he wants; and Will lets him because he's tired, because he just wants this fight to be over, but can't quite yet swallow all his pride and his repressed anger, his desire to prove himself and Hannibal that he's still strong and fighting and kicking.

Will drains his glass and nods in the end, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes for a moment before replying.

“Fine, then. I'll stay with her here until you get back.”

\-----

They're in the kitchen after dinner, he and Hannibal, the man cleaning and moving around him, Will leaning against the counter, sometimes looking up to him, sometimes just staring into the void; he's too drunk to drive home safely, but not enough to let his guard completely down: he's still too awake and present to himself to do that.

“Are you sure leaving now is a good idea? With... everything that has been going on?”

Hannibal stops what he's doing and approaches him slowly, trying to minimize any possible sense of danger he could give away. How considerate of you, Will thinks and wishes he had another glass of wine to gulp down.

“Since I have not received any call from the FBI or from Jack... I have just assumed the situation resolved itself in the end.”

Will looks at his hands, at the way they toy with the washcloth he's holding, can't stop himself from imagining them on his skin, slipping under his clothes and reaching out for him, touching where he needs it so bad he almost says it out loud. It'd be a lie to say he didn't miss him, seeing him, being in the same room with him, even if it means fighting or discussing; he still wants to lean in and let the man wrap his arms around him, to feel his body close and be finally able to abandon himself against it.

But Hannibal doesn't make any movement or come any closer and Will just nods.

“Yeah. It all went well in the end, just like you predicted. You were right, you must be proud of yourself.”

Hannibal sighs, but a half smile creeps on his lips, something indulgent almost, but weirdly it doesn't make him angry like it usually would; maybe he's just too tired and dizzy and warm to be angry.

“I simply did what had to be done to protect my family.”

Will bites his lips and looks away nervously, like he suddenly feels guilty of all his spite, of sounding so petty and childish. And he is, he really is, but the little demon living inside him just doesn't want to stop.

“I know.”

“Also, you said you needed some time alone, to think. I am just giving you as much space and time as possible to put your mind at ease and fix whatever needs to be fixed inside of you.”

Will turns around and faces the window, looking at the darkness outside, and feels Hannibal take a couple more steps in his directions until he's right behind him, with Will exposing his back and neck to him; his hands are probably itching to touch as well.

“Do you want me to stay instead, Will? I am sure I can find a suitable excuse to miss the conference...”

Yes, please, stay, please, let's just go back to how it used to be, let's forget this ever happened.

Will shakes his head, his eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, feeling his body torn between the warmth that comes from the inside and the cold presence of Hannibal around him.

“No, you should go. Catch up with old friends, see Europe again...”

Hannibal doesn't answer, but suddenly Will feels his hands on his shoulders: his whole body tenses and the familiar and comfortable feeling of that touch fights off the impulse of trying to shake him off; in the end, he's unable to get rid of his love for him, of this burning desire to have him, to be taken and owned and take and owning in return. Hannibal's hands know his body perfectly and it knows them just as well; it's impossible not to give in.

“Have you been sleeping, Will? Your shoulders are tense...”

Hannibal starts a slow massage, manipulating his flesh, his skins and his bones, until Will is pliant and weak under his fingers, holding himself still by gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white.

“Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary.”

He lies and shields himself as good as he can, but the man can see beyond all of that and through him like he's made of glass or of water and all he has to do is slip an hand inside him to grab and expose his secrets. It makes his head spin.

But doesn't try to move away from the touch, relaxes into it, his eyes still closed, his breathing steady and regular. Hannibal keeps massaging his shoulders, his arms, gently touches his neck and when skin meets skin, Will shivers.

“I... I should go. It's late and we all have a long day ahead tomorrow...”

Hannibal doesn't let go, if not he hold him tighter and Will makes no attempt at all to move free, his voice soft and lacking the convincing strength it would take to make the man let go; because he knows he would if Will really wanted him to. But he likes this moment, this intimacy between them. It spreads all around him, cold hands on his skin and a hard and steady body against his back: it's that kind of closeness that they can only have in silence, with no words at all passing between them.

Time seems to disappear, to stop, nothing moves and there's no sound except their breaths, until Hannibal bends his head over to whisper in his ear.

“I must insist you stay the night, Will. You had too many drinks to drive safely and it snowed the whole day.”

Will turns around and Hannibal lets him go, his eyes examining his face, looking for anything, any emotion, but he does nothing except standing there, fixes his glasses and then inhales deeply.

“I can prepare one of the guest bedrooms for you, if you wish.”

Another bone, another concession to make him feel pinned down, but with the illusion of a choice, of an escape route, of a freedom sometimes Will asks himself if it's really there or if it's just an elaborate manipulation. But there's something else, something that brings an involuntary smile to his lips: Hannibal wants him to stay, wants to have him close, Will can read it in his body language, in the way he circles him and moves around him, in the way his hands flex and in the light in his eyes that makes parts of him want to kiss him, to run his fingers on his face, stripping him and having sex right there, to give himself to Hannibal completely.

One can't chose only one side of this, can't pick only the good days: Will accepted a long time ago Hannibal's cruelty, his darkness, his pitch black evil, swallowed them together with the desperate and stunningly deep love Hannibal has for him. He took them all inside and they filled him to the point of almost making him forget himself.

They are there and no matter what happens between them, they'll never disappear, because those roots are too deep and strong to be eradicated and destroyed, because Will watches over them and shields them from any harm, nurses them and they ended up growing stronger and stronger, becoming tall and menacingly high trees that cast their shadows over him.

So, in the end, he shakes his head.

“No, that would not be necessary.”

\-----

Will is curled on his side of the bed, his back facing Hannibal who is reading an old medical text in Italian, turning the pages very quietly to avoid to disturb him; he should sleep, they both should, but he can't, his brain keeps working too fast, so he keeps staring at the painting on the wall, trying to exhaust himself somehow.

They are not touching and they barely spoke after leaving the kitchen, but everything around him smells of Hannibal, of them, reminds him of times when touching and closeness were not so difficult and filled with dark corners and paths with thorns and holes in the ground. But the silence is so peaceful, the simple fact of them being together there seems to clean something inside him, to erase a part of his nightmares.

Will sighs and inhales the scent on his pillow, the familiar cologne and aftershave, the subtle hint of something spicy and bitter that scratches the back of his throat.

“Am I disturbing you? I can turn off the light if you want me to.”

Hannibal keeps reading, not even looking at him; Will can see him without needing to turn around.

“Don't worry, I'm fine.”

He wants Hannibal to touch him, to slide his hands on his hips, to kiss him and take everything away, to drown it inside his monsters, allow them to eat it and make it disappear; the barrier between them is thinner now, but still there, not defeated enough to give up and completely crumble. It still holds and keeps them separated.

Will hides under the covers and finally closes his eyes, trying to take his mind away from there, to dwell in old memories that will calm him, but all they do is making him feel a kind of pain in his chest that brings more loneliness and isolation to him, that closes him into a tiny little bubble where he's completely alone with his demons.

He looks away so he doesn't have to face them, presses his hands over his ears so he can't hear them whisper, ignores them so he can pretend they're not even there.

And in the end, Will falls asleep.

\-----

It's a little over two o'clock when he wakes up the first time, with Hannibal's body pressed against his back and an hand on his side; the man is sleeping soundly, Will could tell if he were faking, but his breath is steady and regular, a mantra that tries to lulls him back into unconsciousness.

His hand is cold even through his t-shirt, but its presence is comforting and welcomed and Will doesn't try to shake him off, to get away from the touch; Hannibal is always quiet when he's sleep, a solid rock, an harbor where he can settle and rest for as long as he needs. 

Will touches his longs fingers with the tips of his, slides them over the back until he reaches his wrist; the man doesn't move, his breathing doesn't change. Around them the air is still and calm.

For a moment, he thinks he can see the stag out of the corner of his eye, but when he gets slightly up and looks, there's nothing there, just an empty and dark room. He's cold, but leans in to Hannibal's touch, holds his hand on top of his and drifts into sleep once again...

\---  
Hannibal wakes him up gently, already dressed, hovering over him; Will yaws and tries to put the half lit room into focus, brushing his eyes.

“What time is it...”

“Almost 8 o'clock. My taxi will be here soon.”

“Isn't it a bit early?”

Hannibal smiles and sits down on his side, not touching him but filling the space with his body anyway; Will feels the staggering need to grab him and pulling him down for a kiss, holding him there in bed, not allowing him to leave, telling him to stay there with him and fuck him until they'll both forget everything else.

The man looks at him for a long, long moment, examining his face carefully, then sighs when he doesn't say anything.

“Better be early than late. One never knows what could happen... I am leaving the car in the garage, should you need it. You know where the keys and the money are. If you need anything, just call. I will be back Saturday afternoon.”

He looks at him for a long minute and then tries to smile, managing only a tired grin; without really meaning to, or maybe he does, he brushes his fingers against his arm, caressing it only for a moment, feeling the texture of his shirt against his skin and shivering. Hannibal's smile becomes wider and Will swallows, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Well, have a good time. I guess.”

“I will try.”

Will nods, closing his eyes again and feeling sleep take him over again; Hannibal lowers his head on him and maybe kisses him on the temple, maybe he just stay there for a moment, he's not really sure and can't decide if it's intentional or just the tiredness that weight his body down.

He still runs and hand through his hair before he can stop himself, it's just his body reacting to Hannibal's presence there so close to him. The man inhales his scent deeply, his eyes closed, before finally getting up.

“Sleep some more, Will. We will talk once I return.”

Maybe he nods, maybe he just moans softly; maybe Hannibal kisses him again or simply leaves.

He's asleep in a matter of seconds.

\-----

Will and Abigail have breakfast in the silent kitchen, the rest of the house closing around them, quiet and empty, almost lifeless; they found it already on the table and they don't speak while they eat, they barely look at each other.

Abigail plays with the food in her plate for long minutes before eating it and Will is too lost in his thoughts to try to make any kind of small talk; he still feels Hannibal's presence against his body, can still smell him around them and even though he's far away now, it's like he never left, like he's filling the emptiness that surrounds him and Abigail, replacing it with his strength.

He chews slowly, trying to forget where what he's eating comes from, closes his eyes sometimes and drinks his coffee to wake himself up, trying to become aware of the real world again and not to lose track of time by letting the reins of his mind run free to take him everywhere they want.

“It's so... quiet, isn't it? The house, when he's not here. It just feels wrong.”

Abigail looks straight at him, her blue eyes shining in the morning light: it's raining outside, hard, and the room is filled with a greyish glow that turns down all the colors, kills the brightness and leaves behind a colorless world; but her eyes are so clear, there's something behind them that keeps them like this. Something that makes him shiver without knowing why.

Will nods and looks outside the window: a lightning strikes, but neither of them flinch, not even when a roaring thunder explodes around them, so loud they can feel in inside their bones; Abigail's fingers brush against his hand, gently and subtly, but without any trace of shyness. The smiles she gives him, though, is almost sad, like something dark and melancholic is moving inside her heart and she doesn't know how to let it out; something that mixes with an hint of predatory that should scare him.

But it doesn't, it doesn't scare him at all.

“Yeah, it does. It feels wrong.”

Will smiles back in the end, without knowing exactly when expression is on his face.

\-----

He takes the day off at work and turns off his phone for good measures, then once the storm is over he drives them to Wolf's Trap to settle the dogs and get his things; Abigail hums to the radio the whole time, filling the car with her voice.

Will sometimes steals quick glances at her and seems to notice a lot of details for the first time: her hair are slightly longer and she's wearing all new clothes; probably Hannibal accidentally dumped all the old ones that the always caring Doctor Bloom bought for her while she was in the hospital. The thought makes him realize how much of their lives the man controls, but can't decide right away what this realization makes him feel.

Abigail seems to be happy, at ease, better than she ever looked and Will doesn't want to do anything that may change it: they are already too messed up and damaged for him to add more with his questions, to poke and reopen old wounds that are just starting to heal.

Because Abigail maybe was never the normal girl she thought she was, maybe she didn't really belong to that world, but, like him, grew up in it and it takes time to accept this other reality, to see what's around them with these new eyes.

She loved her parents, her friends, the little and peaceful world that was her whole life, something bright and safe, not yet tainted by blood and death. And now it's all gone, destroyed in the blink of an eye forever and what she got in exchange is a ill-shaped existence made of lies and secrets.

It's not fair, nobody should have to live like this; and yet they never stop choosing to, nothing can change what they need, the long in their hearts that needs to be fulfilled; Will sometimes tries to imagine a whole life without Hannibal in it, and no matter how happy it seems to be, it never has that absolute sense of belonging he feels when they are together. It's not the same, it just can't be the same.

They take Winston and Clementine with them, it seems appropriate, says Abigail smiling, and leave the rest to one of the few neighbors Will actually talks to, an elderly couple with a huge propriety: they stare at Abigail for a while, like they're trying to figure out exactly who she is for him; he says nothing that would clarify it.

Abigail, as usually, walks through the rooms of his house like she's looking for mysteries hidden behind the old furniture, in the veins of the old wood that surrounds them: outside it's raining again, so they wait before leaving, and there alone Will can't stop staring at her, him too hunting secrets under her skin.

He makes some tea and something to eat to distract himself, Winston brushing his nose against his leg while he does it, and he's sure he can hear her breathing softly even through the sound of the rain; he wonders how she's like when she's alone with Hannibal, what they talk about, if they talk at all. What he shows her when they're safely hidden in his house, the dark arts she learns from him. He wants to ask, but at the same time doesn't want to know.

They drink and eat in front of the window, Abigail caressing Clementine's fur with one hand and holding the cup with the other, Will lost in his thought.

“I can see why you like living here.”

He turns to face her and sees that she's smiling.

“You need a place for yourself, far enough from everything and everyone. I understand that.”

“You can come here whenever you want if you need one too.”

“I know. Sometimes everything is just too much and... you need to clear your mind. Keep the world outside even if just for a few hours, so when you face it again, it doesn't overwhelm you.”

Will nods absently and he knows what she means, feels like this almost all the time: like the walls are closing in on him, like he can't breathe and is stuck in a cage that grows smaller and smaller everyday; only when he's alone in his little house or when he's trapped in Hannibal's arms he feels free, only then he knows he can lay down his masks and be himself, knows that he can surrender and let go.

“Yeah. Sometimes you just need a place to rest.”

Her hand is cold on his when she touches him, not as cold as Hannibal, but still enough to startle him. Their eyes are almost of the same shade of icy blue, a color as sharp as steel, something that cuts deep inside through the layers. 

“You'll always have us.”

Will nods because he can't help it, but still can't decide if those words sound like an invitation, a promise or a very subtle, but still dangerous threat.

\-----

The whole days is blurred and permeated by a gray light and a stunning silence that surrounds them and holds them in its cold arms; it keeps them pressed together even when they're not in the same room, allowing them to feel each others presence through the walls and the empty rooms.

Will is in the study, reviewing and grading essays that look all the same, filled with repeated and unimaginative sentences and thoughts to the point when the words are all clogged in front of him and he can't tell them apart anymore. Winston keeps him company and sometimes he takes a break to caress his fur and watch him play with an old ball. It's better than focusing on nothing and leaving his mind free to wander where it shouldn't, reaching out in corners that it's better to keep buried in the deepest recesses.

He can feel Abigail in the living room, can almost see her curled on the couch, reading a book or staring at the ceiling, the fireplace crackling and warming the room. Will relaxes in the chair, Hannibal's chair, caresses the leather and closes his eyes: he wonders what time it is in Italy, if Hannibal is there already and what he's doing. Wonders if he misses them already.

They stay in the kitchen during dinner, because it doesn't seem right to eat in the dining room without Hannibal and neither of them wants to go through the trouble of preparing it; the man left several Tupperware containers filled with already cooked meals, ready to be eaten and carefully dated not to make them go bad. It's the type of care that says more than words to them, that shows how much attention he puts into everything, but especially in matters that concern them as well.

Will lets the food fill his body and enjoys the taste without any guilt or regret, he detaches himself completely from what is in his plate and only sees it as nourishment. Abigail does the same; she even smiles while eating, not even tired in spite of the long day they had: she's weirdly hyped and offers to do the dishes while Will finishes his last glass of wine. He knows he shouldn't drink so much, that he should stay as lucid as possible, but dulling his senses feels so good and so sweet he indulges anyway.

Hannibal doesn't call and he'll never admit to feel disappointed because of it, that he misses him because now he's really far away, completely out of his reach: now the emptiness he feels inside is incredibly real and painful. He drink more to forget it and ends up almost falling asleep on the couch while he tries to read; and he would have if Abigail hadn't touched his shoulder and shaken him gently, smiling.

Her smile uncovers her teeth slightly and Will finds himself staring at them, like he's suddenly scared of something: of her. But it's just a moment and it passes quickly, leaving his mind clearer, his vision less fuzzy. He feels suddenly cold and has no idea why, because the fire is hot in front of him and the room's temperature is incredibly pleasant: he looks around and breathes the warm air slowly, allowing it to fill him. And still it doesn't seem to reach everywhere inside him, leaves some cold spots that press into his lungs and heart.

Abigail doesn't seem to notice, but Will knows she's faking it, knows that she can see much more than she says. But she lacks the strength to confront him; or maybe just enjoys watching from the sidelines and waiting in silence.

It's a game of chase and wait, something Hannibal taught her and now she's trying on him to see how good at it she's becoming. He doesn't look away or flinches, remains watchful and then retires to the study to work a little bit more before going to sleep. 

Will stays awake for hours once in bed, unable to fall asleep no matter how tired he feels: his head hurts, but still he just can't relax enough to slip into the blessed arms of oblivion.

He stares at the phone on the bedside for a while, thinks about calling Hannibal's hotel just... he doesn't even know to do what, hear his voice? Hang up when they'll make the call go through? It sounds pathetic even to himself and he curses under his breath, still he takes the phone in his hand and almost presses the keys, before coming back to his senses and giving up. 

The door opens slowly and for a moment he expects to see the stag or Hannibal himself appear on the door, but it's just Abigail, who enters without a word, wearing a dark blue pajama that looks too big for her and that creates an harsh contrast with her pale skin; the girl stares at him for a long moment before slipping under the covers, hiding under them, leaving only her face out; she smiles, adjusting her position until she's satisfied, keeping a firm distance between their bodies. Will stares back and wants to tell her to go back to her room, but the sight of her dark hair spread on the pillow, Hannibal's pillow, stops him.

“I can't sleep.”

Her voice has a strong note of sincerity and innocence, something that Will thought she had lost, but that is still there, now uncovered by the night and by the sense of loss they both feel but that they cannot admit, not even to themselves, because it'd mean accepting its existence and realizing their lives cannot be the same anymore without Hannibal in them.

Will just nods.

“Neither can I.”

He lays down again and closes his eyes, listening to Abigail breathing next to him: then he turns off the light and the room falls into darkness and silence.

 

Abigail doesn't stay still in bed: like him, she turns and moves around, unable to stop, like she's possessed by something that doesn't allow her to rest peacefully; and once she wakes him up. Will finds her hugging him, her face pressed against his back, her hand gripping his t-shirt. Maybe he should turn around and push her away, but that would wake her up and he hates the thought.

Her presence is pleasant against his body, not in the way Hannibal's would be, more like something that reminds him that he's still himself, still alive. Will takes slow, deep breaths and tries to focus on the sounds of the night until he slowly sinks back in the darkness of sleep. His dreams are surprisingly empty, void of nightmares, but also of everything else: he feels lost on a stranded beach, surrounded only by the infinite sand and by the sea roaring faintly. He feels a warm hand in his but can never turn around and look who's standing next to him.

\-----

Work is duller that usual, the hours seem to stretch, become longer and Will keeps getting distracted, earning whispers and weird looks from his students, who are probably wondering if their professor is about to start going crazy again like he did before and if they can switch to another class before it happens. So he tries to get through the day as good as he can, fixes his glasses and gives to his voice a heavy and commanding tone that makes them wake up and suddenly sparkles their interest.

He wants to avoid meeting people he knows and being forced to make any kind of conversation, feels still so tired in spite of the full night of sleep he got. He left Abigail while she was finishing breakfast: they didn't mention anything about the events of the night before and Will was glad for that, because he honestly had no idea how to breach the subject. They just ate in silence, looking at each other carefully, studying movements and expressions.

Hannibal calls her while he is at work and for a moment, Will feels so wounded and offended he almost picks up the phone and calls him again: but he has no idea what time it could be in Italy and lacks the guts for a confrontation, knowing that his reasons are silly and petty, driven by a weird kind of jealousy he can't even admit to feel.

But he's on the edge for the rest of the afternoon and of the evening, can't even focus on grading papers because his mind is elsewhere. And of course Abigail notices, stares at him with her head slightly inclined on the right and her eyes shine brightly.

“Are you upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

She shrugs.

“I don't know. But you are. Why?”

Will bites his lip and sighs.

“I'm not upset. Just tired. Very tired.”

Winston puts his muzzle on his lap and Will caresses the dog gently, his fingers running through the warm fur, comforted by the feeling on it in his hands.

“He cares about you. More than you know.”

Her voice is a barely audible whisper; he turns towards her and from her expression, he can tell that his face must not being very convincing.

“I know he does.”

“But you feel easier to believe that he doesn't. Maybe you even find it comforting. Because accepting the depth of his feelings for you would be scary, would change everything too much and too fast. And you're not sure you want that to happen.”

Will ponders her words for a long time.

“His care is dangerous and poisonous, he drags you down and makes you a part of his world and it doesn't matter if you want it or not. But the truth is that I always wanted it, to be with him, to belong to him. I just... don't like to admit it to him, because it gives him even more power than he has already and I just want to keep some for myself.”

Abigail smiles at him and nods, smoothing the soft material of her skirt like it'll help her think of a decent reply to give him, even though Will is not really expecting one; but their words are still hanging in the air, heavy in meaning and slightly bitter.

“But you still hold most of the power. Because you know he'd do anything, literally anything for you. You could ask him to burn down the world and he'd do it without arguing. He'd just smile and nod.”

“That's what scares me the most: the fact that he would give me the knife, let me point it at someone and then he'll smile, kiss me, take the knife away from my hands and go finish the job himself.”

They don't say anything after that, but Will sees her nodding quietly, biting her nail and resting against the couch, both of them lost in their thoughts, both of them feeling Hannibal's presence between them, so strong it feels like they can touch it.

Abigail sleeps with him again, curled on her side of the bed; it's oddly comforting and Will can't help but staring at her, at the way her skin seem to shine in the darkness around them; it reminds him of Hannibal's eyes, of the way they burn into the night, like a furnace always consuming.

He sights and closes his eyes, staying still until his tired body claims his mind too and he falls into oblivion.

Nightmares shake his sleep, wake him up when the night is still dark and deep, when all the sounds around him are muffled, but every single one of then could be a bad dream come alive and ready to attack him: he can't tell if Abigail is awake or not, her form is so still, only her chest rises and falls with her breaths. 

Will still sees dark shadows out of the corners of his eyes, feels the sweat cooling and drying on his skin, giving him an uncomfortable feeling, but his body is suddenly heavy and weak and he can't get up to shower or at least change his t-shirt. Abigail's hand is touching his, the warm and delicate pressure guiding him through the transition from nightmare to real life like a little lighthouse. He forces himself to try to relax, staring at the empty ceiling until his eyes start to water, blinking only when he has too, feeling watched and restless.

For a moment, he's sure he just heard the telephone ring, its sound echoing in the empty rooms, resonating through the whole house: he waits, almost not breathing, for it to repeat itself and shake him again, but nothing moves and the feeling passes as quickly as it came, slowly leaving him, washing over him like a wave that then retreats.

And silence embraces him again...

\-----

Hannibal left enough food for at least three full days, but by the lunch of the third they're already mostly out of it and neither of them has any intention to cook something from scratches; mostly because the idea of exploring the depth of Hannibal's kitchen makes them weirdly uneasy and nervous.

So they order takeout for dinner: and it's liberating in a weird way to fill fancy and expensive plates with greasy Chinese food and then eat it in front of the TV, careful not to spill or stain anything, but feeling the grip of control Hannibal has over then even when he's not there relaxing even if only for a few hours. 

Will's day at work was too long and too filled with meetings he could not avoid and that make him feel thinner, with the edges of his being consumed and rounded, his shields corroded and broken; it's good to stay like this, laughing softly at some stupid reality show that probably never played before on this TV, eating food that would make Hannibal frown and shake his head.

It's good to taste some of his old life, where everything was simpler, without so much blood and death around him. It's good to see Abigail so happy and serene. But everything feels somehow distant, like something is missing from the picture and he imagines to have Hannibal's arm draped around his shoulders, his cold hands on his own, his lips pressing against his temple and then his lips.

“We'll have to wash everything at least three times to make sure he can't smell anything on the plates. And clean before he comes back!”

Abigail's voice is amused, because she perfectly knows Hannibal would just, maybe, scold them with his eyes lighted by a smile or simply ignore it and allow them to indulge in their little rebellions. He likes to own them, but still feel them alive and kicking, ready to bite him whenever they can.

Will laughs too and eats another mouthful of noodles.

“What does he even need such a big TV for anyway? Always showing off...”

“Maybe he likes to watch concerts or operas or I don't know, maybe old movies!”

He nods, still smiling.

“Yeah, he probably does...”

Talking to her it's easy; despite the secrets that run between them, the too many things they still cannot talk about, there's none of that difficulty he feels all the time, that stuns him and makes him appear always out of place, always the one that doesn't fit. They understand each other with a look, laugh at the same jokes and can appreciate the little things that make them feel still normal and still human. 

It's not the same feeling of belonging he has with Hannibal, but it still grounds him: it's a hand on his shoulder that radiates a safe warmth that keeps him aware of what is real and what isn't.

The evening is incredibly pleasant and by the end of it they're both happier they have been in a while, tired and full, still staring at the TV screen with no intention of getting up for now: Will closes his eyes and takes slow and deep breaths, his chest filling and emptying, his head light and peaceful.

Abigail's eyes shine in the soft lights around them, her face lighten up by and slightly flushed: she'd look beautiful to any man, but the strongest feeling Will has is to keep protecting her, to keep her safe from everything and everyone, even though he knows she doesn't need him, that she can take care of herself.

A fierce little lion cub that already has sharp claws an teeth.

Later, Will decides to take a shower before doing the dishes, welcoming the hot water that washes away the tiredness from his body enough to persuade him not to directly crash on the bed and leave the mess downstairs untouched.

The little cabin reminds him of his first night there, when he was still shaking and trying to come to terms with the first wave of shock and realization, right after finding out the truth about himself. He remembers the way Hannibal had looked at him then, his hands on his skin, his kisses everywhere on his body.

Remembers the way he bent for him, accepting and drinking his poison without flinching: it felt so natural and right back then, still feels this way every time he does it, every time he closes his eyes and lets him take everything he wants from him.

Will hears the phone ringing three time, the piercing sound reaching him even there in his cocoon of water and plastic: then silence again, a long ones that stretches for minutes and that seems to go on forever. He almost expects to hear Abigail's voice calling him, but there's nothing but the sound of the water and of his own breaths.

He waits for a while, turning off the shower and feeling cold air attacking his skin; but when he grows tired of it, he rinses quickly, without looking in the mirror so he doesn't see the disappointed look on his face, puts something on and goes back downstairs with his hair still damp. 

Abigail is nowhere to be found, so he just gets to work and starts washing the plates as carefully as he can, drying them and they slowly placing them back in their drawer; he's so focused on his task, he doesn't hear her enter the room until she talks and startles him so much he almost drops something.

“Need any help?”

The expression on her face is oddly serious, a sudden change from the smile she had on before, and she's biting her lip like she does when she's nervous or hiding something. Will shakes his head.

“No, thanks. What did he say?”

He hears Abigail take a deep breath and then come closer to him, like a cat, silent and elegant.

“He's fine, Rome is beautiful and the conference is going well.”

“You could have called me...”

Even without turning around, he can perfectly see her face and the little twitches it makes when he asks that question; he keeps washing, rinsing and drying, fixing himself on the mechanical movements.

“He was late for a dinner or something, he used a weird Italian word. Are you sure you don't need help?”

“Yeah, sure. You can go to bed if you want, I'll finish.”

But she doesn't move at all, doesn't leave and Will feels her eyes focused on his back, then hears her delicate steps coming even closer, until she's almost pressed against him; he puts the last plate back in the drawer and waits for her to do anything, to speak or make a movement that will take them out of this moment that feels so unreal, out of time, like they're in a little bubble and neither has any idea how to come out of it.

He sighs when her fingers touch his shoulders, caressing it just with the tips, like she's trying to get his attention; one finger goes down, tracing his spine, and stops at the center of his back, pressing right there for a long moment; that's when Will turns around to face her. Abigail smiles, her eyes are so big and so deep, but for a moment they don't look like her's; he can see something else reflecting in them that sends a shiver down his spine, something red and dangerous that flickers in her irides and then disappears.

Will takes a deep breath and doesn't look away even though he wants to, he even smiles back, rises a hand a brushes Abigail's hair behind her hear in a gesture that wants to be tender, but that feels differently charged, with an electricity running under that doesn't seem right, that neither of then felt before between them, at least not like this, not so strong it's almost solid.

Abigail laughs softly, looks away for a second, her eyes closed, taking deep breaths before reestablishing eye contact with him. 

And before he can do anything, she presses her lips on his: it's nothing more than this, a soft pressure that lasts just a few seconds. Abigail closes her eyes, but Will keeps his open, staring straight at her and doesn't do anything but waiting when she moves away from him, still so close he can feel the heat of her body and her breath on his lips; she's smiling again, but there's uncertainty in her eyes, like she's not sure what he's going to do now.

“He told me to give you a kiss...”

Her whisper is barely audible and Will doesn't know if he wants to laugh or get angry at that, because of course, of course Hannibal is right there between them, pulling the strings and making them move and convulse and bow at his command, following his whims and fickle desires.

What do you want me to do now? He thinks, while wondering if the man knows what's happening, if he can somehow see or feel it. Will looks at Abigail, at how close she still is, and then kisses her again, before his brain manages to stop him, before his body refuses to follow his orders. He kisses her and this time they both keep their eyes open, stare at each other while their lips are pressed together and Will can read something that is almost amusement in hers.

The kiss is longer and slightly deeper this time, but it remains nothing more than a pressure that could be so much more but isn't and maybe will never be anything else.

She's still smiling when he pulls back and, surprisingly he finds himself returning it: it's like this is all a game and even though they both feel like little paws moved around for somebody else's amusement, it doesn't mean they can't play as well, trying to use the rules to get on top of it and come out as winners.

We could do everything we wanted right now, we could burn the world to the ground, we could destroy everything we have built just because we feel like; or because a bored god makes us dance and we let him do it. They have never been closer, with their minds so linked... but the moment breaks when he gently pushes her away and shakes his head when she makes another move towards him.

Abigail frowns, confused, almost hurt, and how do you explain to someone who looks like this, with big eyes that pierce straight through your soul and little teeth that want to bite at your heart, that what you need and want is completely different.

It's something darker and stronger that lurks on them from the shadows of their soul, and that no matter how much of it there's in her, it'll never, ever be the same; it's like wearing clothes that are too big: you can swim in them and never feel grounded and held back the way you want and need, it's impossible.

“No.”

Will whispers just that and Abigail suddenly understands, because the hurt expression on her face turns into understanding and, maybe, a hint of sadness and pity; he bites his lips and breathes deeply when she moves away, feels his body tired and heavy once again, so ready to crash on the floor and he has to support himself on the counter.

They still stay close for a while longer, Abigail, caresses his arm and he gently touches her face; they don't need to talk, don't need to say anything because they can see inside each other and that's enough. It wouldn't be enough with him, because he's a much more demanding and greedy creature than them, one that he's not satisfied until he devours and consumes everything. One that rarely accepts a no as an answer.

“Are you ok?”

Will nods and lets his hand fall. Abigail nods and then silently leaves the room.

“I hope you're happy now.”

He says to no one and of course he receives no reply.

\-----

Will manages to sleep only a couple of hours before his alarm goes off, making him feel groggy and still tired: he sights in the empty room, running an hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes, trying to fight the tiredness that still weights his body down.

He would lie to himself if he said that he didn't miss Abigail's presence next to him; the night was long, too full of thoughts and doubts, of images that kept flashing in front of his eyes and that filled his brain. He almost called Hannibal again, stopping only because he had no idea what to say, what to ask him. But the desire to hear his voice was excruciating and painful, burned deep inside of him and he was so close to give in... 

Will gets up and takes a long shower, trying to wash away his regrets and the lack of sleep, craving some coffee and a quick breakfast, feeling his stomach clench painfully in hunger.

Abigail is already in the kitchen when he gets downstairs, sipping some kind herbal tea that spreads its delicate scent into the room: she doesn't look away when she notices him, smiles instead and asks him he wants some. Will nods and goes to sit down next to her; it's raining again outside and the dogs are nervous, moving around them and brushing against their legs. The silence is so deep Will can feel it on his skin like a curtain.

Yet there's no tension between them, barely a hint of embarrassment, but no awkward friction that threatens to shatter the precious dynamic they have established; Abigail plays with the spoon in her cup while Will listens to the rain and to the fast breathing of the dogs.

“I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. I... don't know what I was thinking.”

Her voice is small, but steady, her eyes are firm on his face and Will finds himself nodding almost instantly, like he understands perfectly and is already over the whole thing; but there are words hanging on his lips, ready to be spoken, even though it takes a moment for them to come out of his mouth.

“Did he... say something to you? When he called?”

“Are you asking me if that was his idea?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

Abigail laughs softly and finishes her tea before answering.

“No, it wasn't, really. He just told me to give you a kiss, nothing more.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Her eyes shine at him with a sultry light in them that makes him laugh for no apparent reason, other than the fact that he can tell she's trying to amuse him and make the sudden tension between them relax.

“Maybe I just wanted to know what it felt like, maybe I was just curious.”

“Oh? And how did it feel like?”

“Are you asking me if you are a good kisser?”

Will shakes his head, still smiling and her laugh echoes in the room; the dogs flail their tails happily at them and he gets up to fill their bowls with more water, not answering her question. Abigail follows his movement for a long moment before starting to wash theirs cups; she as an almost ethereal look in the morning light, her skin so pale you can almost see veins and vessels emerging red and blue from under it.

She's growing up to be a beautiful woman, he suddenly thinks, and can't hide the almost proud smile that lights his face.

“He misses you, you know.”

“Did he really say that?”

“He said he misses both of us, but I'm sure he misses you much more. You two are going to solve things once he comes back... right?”

There's a hint of worry and concern in her voice; Will rests against the kitchen island and sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

“I think so. I hope so. You know he can be... complicated to deal with. You never know what's going on in his mind, if he's toying with you to manipulate you into doing what he wants or... if he's sincere.”

Abigail nods.

“But he really loves you, you must know that.”

“Oh, please. Don't try to convince me he told you that.”

He shakes his head, but Abigail just smiles.

“He doesn't have to.”

Will registers those words slowly, taking them inside his heart and hiding them away, in corners where all his unexpressed feelings rest, where the words that he just can't say grow in the dark like crooked plants, like spectral flowers that shine pale and almost sickly.

Abigail hugs him and he holds her close, kisses the top of her head and lets the tepid warmth of her body pass through his own and link them again, comforting and safe. Will closes his eyes and the minute pass by in silence.

\---  
Abigail persuades him to take her to work with him, promising she will stay in a cafe or in the bookshop nearby, away enough from the FBI not to meet anyone who could recognize her; it's their last day together alone before Hannibal comes back and she doesn't want to waste it. Will agrees in the end because he just can't seem to be able to say no to her.

His lessons always go away in a blur for him, all clogged around in a mess of words, faces and presentations that stopped have meaning or importance for a him a long time ago; today he wishes he could flash forward and get out of the oppressive classroom quicker than usual. No matter how grey the day is, it'll be surely better than this.

His students sometimes don't even seem to really care about what he says anyway, but it's like they're only dare to see the resident celebrity/weirdo and experience first hand what the fuss is all about.

Will tries not to care, but keep swallowing his pride is starting to be harder and harder everyday.

When he finally manages to leave, he and Abigail go have lunch in a little restaurant where nobody spares them another glance; while they sit there, Will wonders what they look like to the people around them, to the ones they walk by in the streets: a couple of lovers, two friends, brother and sister?

He doesn't even really know what Abigail really represents for him: a surrogate daughter, Hannibal defined her once, but she's much more than that now, became a bigger and bigger part of his life little by little. She's a friend, an anchor and so many other things, so many other roles that mix together until he can't tell them apart clearly anymore.

They talk of unimportant things and Will doesn't have to pretend he's something he's not, doesn't have to hide when he's with her or Hannibal. This must be what family means, he thinks, a place where all the masks fall and you're naked and true to yourself. And even though it's scary, almost terrifying, it's better than the suffocating feeling of the eyes of the world always fixated on you, judging every move you make.

Will smiles at her and when she gently touched his hand, he doesn't pushes her away.

While they're walking back towards the FBI Academy to get to his car, they spot Alana Bloom in the crowd; he's about to rise a hand to wave at her, but something inside him stops him, together with the tight grip of Abigail's hand on his arm that suddenly becomes very tight. Her eyes are cold and the sight forces him to wait for the woman to disappear again in the flood of people walking around them before moving on, like they're waiting for a sudden threat to pass and leave them in peace.

“I thought you liked her.”

Abigail looks at him and inclines her head on the side, smiling and her smile is almost dangerous.

“I thought you liked her.”

Will doesn't say anything to that.

\-----

They walk the dogs and then lock themselves into the house, eating leftovers in front on the fireplace and letting the silence fill the space between their bodies: Abigail is reading a big, old book, but dozes off constantly and Will takes it away before she ends up dropping it.

“Are you tired?”

The girl nods, but argues that it's still early and that she doesn't want to go to bed yet; so they end up turning on the TV and Abigail puts her head on his shoulder, resting against him so close he can feel her hair against his cheek when he moves. Will caresses her hand and she laughs softly.

There's an old western on the screen and the greyness of the black and white lulls them slowly, making them drift away; Will smiles when he finds her asleep, her mouth slightly open and her body relaxed and soft. She looks so young and so frail, but she's not, she's strong and dangerous. She can be as deadly as Hannibal if she wants to, as scary as a nightmare.

Abigail remains a mystery for him no matter how much he empathizes with her, how deep into her mind he manages to sink: it's never deep enough, he can never see the whole picture, only fragments of her soul and of her mind. Like with Hannibal, he'll probably never know her fully and he too will have his dark corners they cannot see or understands.

When they finally go to sleep, Abigail traces a long line on his arm, going back an forth on his exposed skin, until her fingers settle on his hand and pry it open: she hold it like it's something precious, something important that has a deep and secret meaning for her, closer her own around it and then closes his eyes.

Will reaches out to kiss her forehead and her delicate lips turn up, shining into a beautiful smile. Men will fall in love with her and she'll eat their hearts right from their chest with that same look on her face, she'll drink their blood and let it stain her mouth with a bright shade of red.

He's almost proud of these thoughts, of the images of her future he can see in his mind.

Abigail falls asleep next to him and the smile stays there, together with the nightmares hidden behind it.

But they don't reach him and he rests just fine.

\-----

The muffled sound of something falling and hitting the floor wakes him up a little after eight o'clock: the room is half dark and Will has to squint and rub his eyes to make out the shapes in it; Abigail is still soundly asleep, curled on her side of the bed, her breathing coming out regularly and softly, her figure relaxed and peaceful.

He watches her for a while, listening to the silence around him; then considers tucking himself back under the covers and trying to get some more sleep before they have to get up and start to clean the house and put everything back in order before Hannibal returns, but in the end decides to go take a look downstairs, to check on the dogs and make sure they aren't making a mess or breaking something valuable, since he let them sleep in the living room.

He's surprised and at the same he isn't at all when he finds Hannibal in the kitchen, busy making breakfast, his back facing the entrance; Will bites his lips and stares at him for a while, watching him move again in the space that rightfully belongs to him: Winston is brushing his nose against his legs, but the man doesn't shoosh the animal away, instead seems to tolerate his presence with his usual courtesy and ease. Will can see the muscles of his back flexing and a smiles creeps on his face before he can stop it.

Because he's happy to see him again more than he wants to admit and the need he feels to just cross the distance between them, put his arms around his back and hold him is so strong he has to take a deep breath to calm it.

“You're back already.”

Hannibal turns around and smiles at him, fondly, his face lightening up when he sees him; Will comes closer, walking barefoot, the floor cold under his feet, but his body animated by a strange kind of warmth; he stops right in front of him.

“Will. Good morning, I hope I have not woken you up.”

He wants to touch me, run his fingers through my hair, caress my cheek and then kiss me, hold me close so I can't go anywhere, so I can't leave the embrace of his arms around me; Will can see it in his eyes, in the way Hannibal looks at him, his gaze traveling on his body like his fingers would on his skin. But he doesn't dare and they simply stare at each other for a while.

“I thought you were coming back this afternoon.”

“My obligation at the conference ended before I expected them to, so I was able to catch an earlier plane and here I am.”

Will nods and brushes his nose just to have something to do; Hannibal stares down at him for a moment more, before going back to his pans.

“Was it good? The conference.”

“It was interesting enough. Rome, of course, was as beautiful as I remembered it. I took the liberty to buy a few gifts for you and Abigail, I hope you'll not mind.”

“Why should I?”

The man turns his head again for a moment and in the look he gives him, Will can see why; it makes him feel guilty and an awkward curtain descends on them, the remains of the fight they had that still weight on them and makes it difficult for them to move around them. No I don't mind, he mumbles, I don't mind at all.

Will didn't realize how much he missed him until now that he finally has him close enough to touch, to feel the cold pressure of his body at his side, to see in those burning brown eyes that Hannibal feels the same, but that the strings between them are hanging lose, almost ready to fall off. They need to tight them up once again, he wants to, wants this tension to be over and for things to go back to the odd peace they had established before.

Hannibal is not saying anything, not even trying to make silly small talks, to give him the chance to decide how the want to play this: if they want to keep it on the level of a distant courtesy or... or if they want to finally face the dark holes left in them by the other's absence and fill them.

“I... missed... I mean... we missed you. It's... good to have you back.”

Will whispers the words, almost keeping them in his mouth, but Hannibal hears them anyway and stops for a long moment, considering every single one, examining them like precious gems, before smiling.

“And I am very glad to be back. I have misses you and Abigail as well.”

Hannibal cleans his hands and turn his body to be right in front of him, almost cornering Will, even though there's enough space between them for him to move away if he wanted to; but he doesn't, he wants the exact opposite of it: wants to grab Hannibal and hold him close.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, in and out, his chest rising and falling, his lungs filling and emptying.

“Look, about what happened between us before you left... I'm not sorry about the way I acted: I was scared, I was freaking out, I had every right to be angry at you. One bad move could have destroyed everything in a second and we are not strong enough yet to survive that in one piece...”

Hannibal sighs, but keeps listening without interrupting him.

“But I'm sorry about saying that you don't care about anything but yourself, that you don't care about us. I know you do, I know how much you care. That was unfair and mean. So... I apologize for that.”

Will looks up without knowing what to expect from him, what he'll see reflected on his face: Hannibal is calm and collected, his body still and his eyes are glimmering in the morning light, a softer light in them now; he is waiting for Will to keep talking, but he has to make a long pause to collect his thoughts and put in words the feelings he keeps inside his heart.

“I know there's no changing what you are and what you do, I have accepted that a long, long time ago and I don't want to do it or wish it was possible either. They way you are is exactly why I'm here after all, the reason why I chose you once and I keep choosing you again and again. You gave me something no one else but you could ever give me and I don't want it to change. I need... you and I know you need me too. Sometimes I wish things were easier, maybe different... but I don't want us to change. I want you to be exactly like this: yourself, with all that comes with it, and... mine.”

He stops talking and breathes deeply, feeling a pleasant emptiness in his chest where all his words were buried; Hannibal remains still for a few more moments, then gently cups his face with both hands and Will almost moans out loud at the touch, because he needed it so bad, missed it more than he can explain without sounding ridiculous. He sighs content and closes his eyes for a moment, to enjoy the feeling as much as he can while he waits for Hannibal to say something.

“There is nothing, Will, nothing I would not do for you and for Abigail. You'd just have to ask and I would do whatever you asked without a second thought. I would kill millions and burn this whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you two safe. You can doubt everything I say and I do, but not this, never this. I am a liar and a deceiver, but this is the only truth you must never question, the only one I'll give you. Nothing means more for me than you and Abigail. And nothing else ever will”

Will looks him in the eyes for a long time before nodding, caressing his wrists and his hands while they keep him still in front of him.

“I know. God, I know, I know...”

He keeps whispering that until their lips meet and then... then it's like reemerging after a long time underwater, breathing so deeply your lungs feel like they're about to burst, feeling the sun and the wind on your wet face once again and being finally certain to be still alive. 

Will clings to him desperately and Hannibal's hands touch him everywhere they can reach, like he's starving for it and can't wait any longer, like he needs to feel him again in his arms right now and he's so eager for it Will almost laughs into the kiss, his body swapped by a wave of happiness he can barely contain.

The kiss seems to go on forever, until they're both breathless, until their bodies are so close Will almost can't tell them apart anymore; he doesn't want to let go of him, traces lines on his face and bring him down again, biting his lips until he feels Hannibal's hands and body pushing him against the counter, his face hiding in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent and kissing his skin while his cold fingers slip under his t-shirt and on his back, making him shiver.

Will wants to tear away his shirt so he can feel his body against his, skin on skin, wants Hannibal to bite down on his neck and fuck him right there, because the ache that burns inside him is so painful he can't stand it anymore, needs to fill it with the desperate and destructive love that runs between them, needs to have it all again.

Hannibal gently pulls away from him and then smiles his him, breathless, his hair messy and his shirt crumpled, but the morning light that shines on his face seems to erase all this and makes his heart almost explode with a renewed sense of belonging: this is where his place is, kept safely in Hannibal's bloodstained hands, licking the red liquid away from his fingers, tasting it in his mouth and smelling it on his skin.

He doesn't care about his soul, about the sins, the lies and the guilt that come with loving someone like him, a man who has death and carnage running through his veins: they don't matter for him anymore and maybe they never really did.

Will holds him and Hannibal holds him back; they keep each other together through the storms and the earthquakes that shake the world around them.

And it's enough, it's everything he needs now.

Hannibal caresses his face once more before going back to make breakfast, with Will staring at him from his usually spot on the kitchen island, where he sits.

“Sorry... about the mess. We were going to clean everything before your return, but of course your had to ruin our plans.”

“It's of no matter. A kitchen is meant to be used and lived. Even though I am not sure reheating Chinese leftovers can be considered using it at its fullest potential. But I am going to pretend I did not see them, just this once.”

Will laughs softly and stares at his back, wishing he could touch it, run his fingers on the curve his spine and feeling the hard bones under the tips, mixed with the smooth skin and the soft flesh and muscles; while he cooks, Hannibal assumes an aura of efficiency that makes him wonder if this is what he looked like while he was a surgeon; if this is what he looks like while he takes organs out of a fresh kill...

“Are you tired?”

He whispers when he catches the man yawing and trying his best to hide it from him, like he's ashamed of his remains of humanity and of the need for rest of his body.

“Quite, yes. I did not sleep on the plane and my day was sufficiently busy yesterday to tire me. Thankfully I have a whole weekend in front of me to recover and rest.”

“You didn't have to go through all of this to come home earlier...”

Hannibal stops arranging the food in the plates to look straight at him and his eyes are of the softest shade of brown he has ever seen in them; and still, his smile hides knifes and nightmares, killings and cruelty, together with a look of pure worship and tenderness towards him alone: thinking about all of that makes him shivers pleasantly in the cold kitchen, while his minds conveys images of those same eyes shining bright red and of his hands dripping blood on the immaculate white floor before smearing it all over him.

“Or maybe I did... maybe it was the one thing I really needed to do.”

Will licks his lips and briefly kisses him, tasting danger and love on his tongue.

“We could go back to bed... after breakfast. So you can rest.”

Hannibal smiles and his laugh is sharp and deadly.

“Yes. we could.”

“I like seeing you like this,” he admits without looking directly in his eyes, focusing on his mouth and on the curve of his jaw, “it reminds me that you can be weak and... human as well.”

That's when they hear Abigail coming down the stairs and entering the kitchen a few moments later: the girl runs towards Hannibal and hugs him tightly, her face lightening up when he turns to the two of them, examining their faces and reading the air between them, before smiling and then nodding softly to Will; they start talking while he observes them, watches Abigail helping the other man with breakfast and feel a mixture of happiness and uneasiness in his heart.

This just a step in the right direction for them, the first of many bricks that will go to fix the wall that their fight brought down; but right now he's staring at what is his family, the only family that will really be his own and there's something soothing and peaceful in it that keeps his doubts at bay for now, even though they still somehow manage to creep under his calm and remind him that they'll never be completely safe and free from the dangers that wait outside the door.

Hannibal puts his hand on his and squeezes it gently, to make him feel his presence strong and real next to him, to take his mind away from the bad thoughts that plague it. 

Will smiles at him and starts eating his breakfast without letting go of it.

\-----

They make love slowly, with Will riding him and Hannibal keeping his hands on his hips, pushing the fingers deep into his skin so they'll leave hand shaped marks that will remind him who he belongs to.

The house is quiet without Abigail and the dogs and the bed creaks under them as he moves up and down, feeling him so deep inside of him he's filled completely, hearing his broken whispers and breaths mixed with his own and with their heart beating furiously.

Will moans and gets down to kiss him again and again, to bite his neck and allow Hannibal to scratch his back and licks the curve of his shoulder. It's perfect like this, with them surrounded by a deep silence that hides them from the world, that protects them and their secrets, that lulls their bodies and keeps them close together.

Hannibal kisses his palm, his wrists, right where the blue veins are, licks the skin while following their path under it; Will stops moving for a second and stares at him and at the expression on his face, at the way his eyes shine and seem to weep desire, love and ecstatic agony. He wants to drink it in and never forget how it feels like to be this adored, this wanted and honored.

Hannibal places him on a pedestal and kneels down to pray in front of him, cupping his face while Will starts to ride him again, following the lines and the hollows, worshiping every part of him like a devout priest would do with his god.

Will comes while moaning his name loudly, feeling him emptying inside him with a groan, collapses on his chest and kisses, kisses, touches and whispers on his skin, his lips and his whole body. Hannibal smiles at him and draws patterns on his muscles with his nails, lines that will be red soon and will shine brightly on him.

They hide under the covers and Will watches Hannibal falling asleep with him laying on his chest, observes him for a long time, listening to his regular and soft breathing. Having him there again feels so good, like finally coming home after a long time, being in his arms again is a sweet taste on his tongue.

His love for Hannibal maybe is too deep and twisted to be put into words, but it's there and in moments like this, Will can feel its full strength ripping through his body and igniting a new warmth inside him.

He closes his eyes and lets Hannibal's presence surround him as he falls asleep.


	3. O Rubor Sanguinis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ..... Yeah... I feel guilty. But a lot of things happened. I'm very sorry. Please enjoy the chapter despite the humiliating lateness. Leave comments if you want. ^^  
> 2\. The title of this part refers to the festivities in honor of the god Dionysus and also, minorly, to the play by Euripides.  
> 3\. I reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally want to thank all my readers! You are simple AMAZING!!! AND SUPPORT ME SO MUCH!!! I LOVE YOU ALL!! I have a tumblr ([samiferist](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd loooooooove it! ^^  
> 4\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 5\. I love comments!

Abigail Hobbs was a happy child, with a loving family, a nice little house that always smelled of good food being cooked and of safety, and many friends.

She was smart, outgoing, funny: her classmates gathered around her almost naturally, following and circling her so easily it was easy for them to forget she was just a kid like they were; she seemed different somehow, with something overwhelming and fascinating inside that could effectively hide her shyness and the cold look that sometimes appeared in her eyes.

She liked the feeling of being surrounded by admiration and friendship, desperately longed to have people close to her, feared loneliness and abandonment; but she kept those thoughts inside her, buried very deep into her still young, but already wise heart. 

Thoughts that were able to force her to stay awake at night and pray really hard for her nightmares never to come true: sometimes, when the darkness around her was so deep she couldn't see anything, she dreamed of empty houses, dark woods, black skies deprived of all their stars.

She dreamed of figures moving in the shadows, hiding behind the trees, too fast for Abigail to see them clearly, but visible enough to scare her and make her want to run. They had big, long and sword-like teeth that they flashed at her menacingly.

They wanted to get her, to hurt and kill her, to eat her soft and innocent flesh and swallow her whole until nothing of her would remain and she'd be just another victim, another prey consumed and then forgotten.

At that point, in the dream, she started to cry, softly at first, then louder and louder, calling out for help.

And then, suddenly, she was not alone anymore, two people were at her sides: a tall man dressed in black and a woman dressed in white, or at least she thought it had to be a woman, slender and shorter than the man, with a mop of unruly, but soft looking curly brown hair; they were not her parents, neither looked like them, but they still took her hands and chased the figures away with their presence.

Abigail caught glimpses of the dark monsters bowing to them, before flying fast, scared and almost trembling.

That made her smile, that made her feel powerful.

She looked back at the couple: the little girl could not see their faces, only their eyes, bright red and fiery for the man, of a delicate shade of blue-green for the woman, but she felt safe, protected: Abigail felt at home with those two strangers and held their hands really tight to keep them close.

The woman's hand was warm; the man's was ice cold.

They never said a word to her, only smiled, or Abigail liked to imagine them smiling.

And when she woke up, she was not afraid anymore and could face her day with a bright expression on her face.

Until one day, everything changed around her: Abigail stepped into her class, smiling, but was met only by a devastatingly cold and harsh silence that chilled her to the bones; and everybody stared at her like she had the plague.

Nobody would talk to her, get near her; and when she asked why, the pointed at the new girl who had moved into their classes just a couple of weeks earlier, Susan Matheson: Abigail frowned at her and tried to talk to her, just wanting to understand, panic rising inside her, making her heart beat faster and faster, but the girl refused to look directly at her.

“Your father is a hunter, he kill poor innocent animals that have dome nothing wrong to him! He's killer! And you are a killer too! You're a monster!”

Loneliness was bitter and cold in her mouth, a foreign taste she could not wash away: she sat far away from the rest of her former friends, who looked at her like she was covered in blood and holding a knife or a gun.

Abigail was only ten years old and no matter how much she wanted to, she didn't say anything to her parents: she concealed her pain under fake smiles and reassurances that sounded empty and plastic to her ears.

Spent her nights sobbing into her pillow and praying to whatever god out there was willing to listen to her soft and broken voice, to make everything go back to what it used to be; in her heart, she hated Susan so hard she could feel it hurt and break.

Abigail wanted to see her cry, wanted to see her drown in despair and pain: hate was a new feeling for her, made her blood sour and her skin itch in unpleasant ways when she sat at the back at the back of her classroom and imagined her cruel and devastating revenge.

Her thoughts scared her, but she could not stop them: for long hours she sat in silence in her room and let her mind run free. The nightmares became worst and there was not even the comfort of her silent protectors to ease her pain and the burden on her shoulders.

She wanted to scream and cry and destroy all around her: sometimes in her dreams, she could see red rivers of boiling blood, wastelands with scrawny and skeletal trees all around her; in her mouth, she could taste something old and familiar and woke up with an aching sadness in her heart.

The days dragged on and she felt her life slip away from under her fingers, felt herself become cold and distant from everything around her; things didn't change, at all, and if they did, they just ended up becoming worst. 

Her hopes began to fade, she began to fade: she couldn't stand to eat meat anymore, but, no matter how stealth she was at taking it out of her plate when here parents were not looking, she knew they were going to find out sooner or later.

Abigail felt stuck in a hole and she saw no way at all to get out of it.

And then... and then...

One night she opened her eyes and saw a big, black stag standing at the feet of her bed: it was so big it felt like it was filling the whole room, surrounding her completely, taking away all the air and sucking it away. Its fur was shiny and damp with rain and its eyes were of a deep and alarming shade of crimson.

But Abigail was not scared: she sat up on the bed and looked at the animal with an interested look in her eyes; in her mind, she was sure this was just another dream, just one that felt more real than the others.

They stared at each other for a while in complete silence, the stag tilting his head to the side like it wanted to look better at her; then the beast started to come closer, its hooves making no sound at all on the wooden floor of her room as it walked towards her.

One moment, it was an animal, the next a man wearing a black suit who sat down on her bed and smiled kindly at her.

"Hello Abigail."

Abigail examined his face and the hint of panic that had gripped her heart, dissipated completely when she recognized him.

"You're the man of my dream."

She couldn't make out his features, no matter how hard she looked, but she could still see his smile and his red eyes. She knew it was him and made her feel safe.

"Am I asleep?"

"Yes. And no. When you'll wake up, you will not remember any of this until you will be ready to."

Abigail frowned and the man took her hands in his, holding them gently: they were so cold the girl shivered under her covers.

"Are you afraid of me Abigail?"

"No."

"Why not?"

His voice was thick with a weird accent, something that seems to take her back to very old times she had completely forgotten, something she savored in her mouth for a while to make it last as long as possible: because it tasted sweet and nostalgic, like a very dear memory of the past.

"Because I know you'll not hurt me."

His smile became wider.

"Good girl, smart girl."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help you, Abigail."

The girl frowned again and lowered her eyes, not wanting the man to see inside her, to find out her pains and her secrets; but she knew it was of no use at all, because she had everything written on her face.

"And how are you going to help me?"

Her voice was little and scared, afraid to let out too much of what she really wanted to ask: are you going to make it all go away? Are you going to fix everything?

The man nodded absently, like he was replying to her thoughts and not to her words.

"You imagine terrible things, you have dark wishes in your heart, do you not?"

Abigail kept looking away, not trusting herself: she felt her eyes full of tears of shame and guilt, her heart oppressed by a terrible weight that made it hard for her to breathe; she couldn't look at him, fearing to see judgment in his eyes.

But the man took her face in his hands and when she lifted her eyes, she saw only pride there.

"Are you going to make them happen?"

The stranger remained quiet for a while, examining her face for what felt a very, very long time, hours even, and nodded in the end.

"All you have to do is to go to sleep, Abigail. Go to sleep and dream. But before I let you go again, I want you to know that one day, I'll be back for you. It may take a long time, a very long time, but I will watch over you, even thought you will not be aware of it. And one day, we will all be together again. Do you understand me?"

The girl nodded.

"Now, sleep."

And Abigail did: she felt the faint feeling of cold lips against her forehead and then darkness surrounded her again.

She dreamed of blood, of murder, of a terrible carnage consumed in front of her eyes; she imagined people screaming, crying, dying in front of her eyes, because of her, of what she wanted deep in her dark, rotten heart that starved for it; she could feel the red, warm and slippery liquid on her hands and it tastes sweet in her mouth.

Abigail smiled in her dream; but when she woke up, she remembered nothing of it: nothing of the man who had visited her, nothing of what he had said to her.

Susan Matheson never came back at school: she was taken away, people said she had killed her parents in their sleep with an hatchet. They said that she was insane, that she kept repeating that she had not killed her family, but a giant black stag that had been stalking her, that wanted to kill her; she was only trying to defend herself, she said.

Life went back to normal for Abigail: she felt her innocence and her happiness restored; she had once again her place in the universe and the curtain that had made her world grey and colorless was finally lifted.

She forgot about her nightmares, about her dark and bloody thoughts.

She forgot about the man of her dreams.

Until the day when she felt Hannibal Lecter's cold hand against her neck, stopping her blood from pouring out of her body; the day when she saw Will Graham kill her father.

That day, Abigail remembered.

\-----

Abigail is sitting on the floor of Hannibal's gallery, surrounded by the silence of the office, her back pressing against the shelves of the library; the man is in the little kitchen, busy making some tea: she can't hear or see him, but there, in the space he occupies the most after his house, his presence is everywhere.

It permeates the walls, the wood of the furniture, the very air she's breathing; even the pages of the book she has open in front of her, an old medical text with beautiful illustrations of ancient practices and of dissected cadavers: she runs her fingers over them, feels the thin paper under her skin. Then she sighs and even the soft sound of her voice echoes incredibly loud in the deep quiet around her.

She has been working as Hannibal's secretary for a little more than three weeks now: he pays her and she has little to do more than to answer the phone, make some tea or coffee and write down appointments; but it's good to have something to do with all the free time she has now, after being released from the hospital, it's good not to stay locked in the house all day and let herself dwell in sadness and loneliness. And she can save some money for the future, she tells herself at night sometimes, even though she has no idea about what her future could be.

Abigail looks down at the empty office and imagines Hannibal during his sessions, talking to his patients with cordiality and surrounded by that cloud of reassurance and normalcy that fooled her too at first, that seems to wrap itself you and make you turn a blind eye to everything else, to the warnings that light up inside your head. The man can shine so brightly, can erase all the darkness around him if he wants to, can appear incredibly trustworthy and ordinary: a collected psychiatrist with expensive and perhaps a little extravagant tastes; but nothing more than that.

He doesn't show any of them the monster behind the mask, the nightmares creeping behind the curtains: but she can see them, can taste charcoal and death in her mouth, can feel the cold whispers of the Underworld on her skin. And Will can too.

Abigail imagines him sitting there when he didn't know who he had in front of him, when neither of them did; and then imagines them now, fully aware of each other's role, but still struggling to find a balance between their lives and the world around them. 

She observes and learns from both of them, looks at them from the fringes of the picture, hidden in the background, carefully protective herself; she tries to take from both of them what she needs to survive: Hannibal's calm and control, his consummated ability to fool and hide his true self; from Will his sensibility, his sometimes almost crippling empathy, the way he lets other people's head get inside his own and takes from them their secrets. 

Abigail sees herself somewhere in the middle, with blurred boundaries and lines around her, with still so much that chains her to her former life, to the normal and simple girl she used to be; but she knows that part of her existence is over forever, that now she's someone new, someone she's still trying to know.

Will feels the same, the girl can read it in his eyes, in the haunted expression that clouds his face, in the way he still acts around Hannibal, drawn to him, but incredibly careful not let his guard down.

She takes a deep breath and tries to focus on her book again, on the thin pages and the beautiful drawings: but every illustration reminds her of the men she has killed.

Now, after Hannibal's intense training, she pays no mind to the blood that stains her hands, to the metallic taste in her mouth and after a kill her dreams at night are surprisingly free of nightmares: the man guides her hand and cleans the mess she leaves behind, gives her the illusion of being him the one who bears the knife, who cuts open bodies that are still filled with life. He takes the guilty off her shoulders and leaves behind only the thrill of excitement she can't help but feeling every time they go out and come home with a new victim.

She wonders what Will would do if he ended up going with them on a hunt, what his reaction to their cold and efficient ways would be. If he would be horrified or seduced by it, if he would run away from the rivers of blood and from the mutilated bodies or if he would take part in what they share, becoming finally a true member of their red stained family.

Abigail bites her lips at the image of the three of them linked by this other knot that would bring them even closer, even more intertwined in ropes impossible to untie, in chains that none of them can break. Hannibal tells her that it'll happen one day, but she keeps asking herself when. Patience was never one of her strong points.

The legacy of her father still follows her, but now she's no longer a lure, not the passive element waiting in the dark anymore: she's the executioner now, the killer with hands soaked in blood.

“Is your reading interesting?”

Abigail jumps up when Hannibal approaches her, smiling with his teeth hiding behind closed lips: she didn't hear him, she never does, no matter how much attention she pays; he's too strong and too good at this game for her to win. Yet.

She nods and closes the book, but doesn't get up and Hannibal observes her with his back against the balcony, his eyes examining her face and piercing through her layers: Abigail doesn't move, stares back and smiles in the end, trying to ease the tension between the two of them.

“A complicated and peculiar book to read at your age. Some people would say that it could have a negative influence on your still young mind.”

Abigail shrugs and crosses her legs.

“I'm not that young. And I'm sure my mind has seen far worst than what's in this book.”

His short laugh fills the silence around them and makes Abigail look away; Hannibal comes closer and, after considering the situation for a long moment, sits down next to her, leaving more than enough space between their bodies, but still surrounding her with his presence.

She tries to ignore the surprise that gripped her in that instant and to look unfazed by seeing his so relaxed and casual.

For a while they remain in absolute silence, allowing the calm of the room to filter into them, to ease the weights between them, even though it cannot cancel the nervous feeling that creeps under her skin: the sense that something she's not completely ready to handle is about to happen and that she can't do anything to avoid it.

It's dark outside, they're alone in the building, shielded and hidden by its thick walls and Abigail thinks that they could stay like this for hours and hours without feeling any need to talk, to break the silence around them. When Will is with them, Hannibal tries to include him, to make him feel part of what they are, of their family; because sometimes it feels like he's not really there, that he's a ghost that will disappear if one doesn't keep him under constant observation.

Abigail wonders if that is exactly what Hannibal thinks about every time he looks at him: that the moment will pass and their separation will come closer and closer and that there is nothing he can do to avoid it.

It must be horrible, she thinks. To know that your happiness can become sour and tainted with sadness and sense of loss in the blink of an eye; she has no idea how he manages to survive it each time it happens, how can he still be standing, instead of being crushed by grief and pain, crippled by his own feelings.

And maybe that's why she want to bring them even closer, why she want it to happen soon, now, before their moment passes and everything is lost once again: her stomach clenches painfully at the thought and she has to take a deep breath to calm down. Hannibal turn his head towards her.

“You are very quiet tonight, Abigail. Are you not feeling well?”

His voice is honey, velvet and poison all mixed together; she shakes her head.

“No, I'm all right. I was just... thinking too much. That's all.”

Hannibal puts her hair behind his ear and smiles at her; Abigail feels the sudden need to hide herself in his chest, to be sheltered by his arms, to feel safe, protected and understood. But she remains still and waits.

“Were you thinking about a specific subject?”

She considers lying, telling him everything but the truth, but it'd be useless; because he knows, he always does, there's no way to hide what's inside her heart and mind.

“I was thinking about us. And about Will...”

His smiles doesn't falter, but there's a light in his eyes that speaks of curiosity and amusement.

“Ah, yes. You seems to do that often recently. And to be prone to... unusual demonstrations of affection towards him. Do I have to worry?”

Abigail swallows and for a moment they just stare at each other without saying anything, without even moving, studying their reactions and trying to penetrate the layers of secrets they both hold dear to protect their hearts. In the end, she shakes her head and looks away. Hannibal's laugh, though, arrives a few seconds later to relieve the tension.

“Do not be anxious, I am not angry about what happened between you and him. It is only natural to experiment with the new found freedom you have now. And to feel the desire to test how far you can take it. You two are so alike in this, both so eager to be free and at the same time, busy building your own cage.”

She nods and breathes deeply, in and out, her eyes closed, her fingers go to rub them and she just wants to put her head on Hannibal's shoulder, to feel his arms around her, to be hidden by his coldness and by his danger, to hear him whisper in her ear that she'll be all right.

“You're right, I guess. I just.. sometimes I feel like he's not really with us. That he's too far away. And I don't like that.”

Hannibal sighs and then gently caresses her face to make turn her towards him: his eyes are of a perfect shade of brown, with barely a hint of red, and his face is a mask of relaxation, care and affection that looks true and believable even to her. She knows he cares and loves her, that she's a part of him; but she'll never be Will, she'll never feel on her skin the burning intensity of the love he gives to him: there is always a hint of cold in the way Hannibal loves her.

Somehow, she's fine with this notion, accepts it and takes what is rightfully hers without complaining. But a part of her still wants more, wants to be with them and see them... even if it'll be just one time. She bites her lips.

“I want him to hunt with us, to know everything about us. I just... I want us all to be together. I need it. I want... I want us to become really a family.”

Hannibal ponders her words for a long time, his eyes shining in the soft lights of his study.

“All in good time, Abigail. We have discussed this before. One day he will join us and we will all be together as we should be. But not yet. Will is still too linked and attached to his old life, to the way he used to be. And, of course, wants to maintain a distance between himself and... what we do. We must be patient. I know it's hard for somebody as young as you are to have patience. But you must trust me. I know he will be ours completely one day. It will happen.”

Abigail stares at him and knows he's sincere, that he believe what he says, that his heart knows that it's just a matter of time before Will decides to kill his past self forever and be reborn as one of them, to have the same blood baptism Abigail had; if she closes her eyes she can still see the blood of her first victim on her hands, taste it in her mouth and remember the look of pride and love she saw on Hannibal's face in that moment, the smile that curved her lips.

She wonders what Will will look like after killing for the first time; then she nods.

“I know, I trust you. I'm sure you know him better than I do.”

But the girl doesn't stop thinking, her mind remains on the image of her, Will and Hannibal with their hands red with blood, with a mutilated body exposed in front of them; maybe those are long distant memories of a past she barely remembers: she's not like them, her mind retains far less of their past lives and maybe it's a blessing, because every time she gets to feel those experiences with a new strength. And she doesn't feel the same sense of ineluctable defeat and of regret for the time that has passed, for the lives that have ended.

Abigail thinks it must be terrible for Hannibal to remember so much and lose them every time; she knows Will thinks the same, because sometimes he looks at the other man with a pain and a pity in his eyes that makes her heart ache.

She bites her lips and then collects her words.

“We could... take him hunting in the woods though. Deers, maybe, the season is still open. It would be nice, I think, to do something different all together.”

Her voice sounds as neutral as she can menage and she doesn't look at him, but keeps her eyes on the pleats of her skirt; Hannibal takes a deep breath and ponders her words for a long time. Abigail would give everything to know the thoughts that are passing through the folds of his mind, into the deepest recesses of his brain: she looks up after a while and the man smiles at her, his eyes shining with interest and complicity, like they are partners in crime at Will's expenses.

But no, it's not what they are: right now, they are guardians, waiting for Will to be truly awake, to abandon his long sleep and join them, to hold their hands, keep them close to his body and accept what they give him and offer them his heart and his mind completely.

“Perhaps you should ask him and see what he says. I am sure he will not refuse you, though. He cares very deeply about you, Abigail, and making you happy is among is most pressing concerns.”

“And what are yours?”

She bites her lips and looks up after saying that, because she's not sure she wants to really know, is afraid of the answer she may get; but Hannibal gently grabs her chin and turns her face towards his own once again and Abigail stares even though it feels like his eyes are burning hers.

“My concerns are to protect my family and keep it together and happy. That and nothing else. Do you understand me?”

Abigail nods very slowly.

The man smiles.

“Good girl.”

Then she shivers when Hannibal kisses her forehead, his cold lips against her skin. Then he gets up and hold out his hand.

“Now come, time to go home. It is quite late. Gather your things so we can leave.”

The girl takes it and obeys.

\-----

Will sighs and rubs his eyes again, finally putting down the books he has been trying to read for the past ten minutes and leaving it on the bedside; he abandons himself against the soft pillows that surround him and glances at the door again, waiting for Hannibal to appear and slip under the covers with him.

He feels a peculiar mix of distress and calm inside him: a part of him won't stop thinking, the other just wants to hide under the duvet, hold the other man close and sleep in his embrace until morning.

His heart is strangely heavy and troubled, he keeps repeating his conversation with Abigail about the hunting trip she tried to persuade him to take with them in his head until the words start to lose meaning and become only sounds without any weight, only vocal emissions that generate nothing in him; or so he wishes.

Will never knows how to handle her, but now, especially since their week alone without Hannibal, he feels even more at loss: like there's an enormous rock between them, blocking their path and they don't know how to deal with it; at least he doesn't, but sometimes in her eyes he catches glimpses of her ideas and tries to ignore them as much as he can.

Hannibal looks amused by the situation, interested to see how it'll develops, what they will do to solve it, but does barely nothing to help; and that makes him feel that need to attack, to rebel against their games, to pull and shake the man until he'll take that mask of indifference and curiosity off of him.

But only the thought of repeating the ordeal that happened between them just a few weeks before leaves him tired and exhausted, without any will to do anything that could break this peace they have now.

He never asked Abigail why she really kissed him, if it was really only an innocent curiosity or if there was more, maybe a desire to know what it feels like to be in Hannibal's place, a desire to redefine her identity that way.

Will knows Hannibal perfectly knows what happened, but the man never brought it up, like he's respecting the fact that it's a secret between the two them; or maybe just waiting for the right moment to reveal his knowledge.

When the man enters the room, Will almost jumps, startled, but is able not to make him notice; they look at each other for a moment and it's like Hannibal is taking a moment to admire the sight of him in his bed, in his most private space, giving the room a warmer feeling that chases away the cold that walks hand in hand with him: he does that often when Will stays over and the look in his eyes speaks of desire and worship, but also of possession and ownership, and he can't help but smiling at him.

“Giving up on the poor Tolstoy already?”

Will snorts and ogles the book while Hannibal slides on the bed beside him; he feels his hand, always so cold, always a reminder of who he is, on his thigh and turns around.

“I'm not in the mood to deal with other people's family issues, even if they're only fictional ones. I think I've got enough of my own.”

The man looks at him attentively, examining his reaction and trying to see from his eyes what he's thinking about. In the end, he takes a deep breath and relaxes too against the pillow, while Will keeps looking at him.

“Sometimes in literature we can find answers to our questions; or at least a valid help to try to understand the difficult situations we can find ourselves in.”

“I don't doubt it at all, but I'm more willing to try the usual methods first, like asking you why is Abigail acting so strangely lately. You're the one who spends most of the time with her, you tell me what's going on.”

Hannibal's hands set on top of the duvet, his eyes are on him and on his lips there's an expression that is half the courteous smile he reserves to people who are not him, usually, and half an avid curiosity mixed with a fierce desire Will can feel on his skin and under it; his voice came out harsher and more accusatory than he meant it to be, but that's the way he reacts when he feels cornered, when he finally sees the string that people are trying to move him with and wants to cut them all.

Abigail's eyes had been so sincere and warm while she was asking him to go hunting with them, to do her this favor and he felt compelled to say yes, like he feared that doing the opposite was going to break something between them. He made a vague gesture and told her he was going to think about it.

And the more he does it, less he knows what to do.

Hannibal's voice brings him back to the present moment and he feels suddenly under scrutiny again, stared at by those eyes that seem to be able to read his feelings directly on his heart without needing him to voice them.

“Abigail wants to feel really accepted, I believe. She wants to be absolutely sure that we are a real family, or something that resembles it as much as it is possible. You cannot blame her, after all. Her past experiences are quite tragic and have greatly impacted all of us. She seeks reassurance and acceptance. Especially from you.”

“And why is that? Because I killed her father?”

“Because you have not killed with us yet.”

His sincerity is astonishing in its bluntness, in the way it doesn't feel the need to hide behind complicated and carefully crafted mazes of words and phrases; Will stares at him and bites his lips without realizing what he's doing. Then takes a few deep breaths before trying to answer.

“So she would settle for this... second rate replacement instead?”

“She wants us all to do something together that would be only ours, something that would bind us together even tighter.”

Will feels Hannibal's hand against his neck, caressing the skin carefully and gently, with just a hint of seduction hidden behind it; his eyes are unreadable and the smile on his lips is a veil that protects his true feels and thoughts from him.

“Maybe we are harming her, maybe we are... ruining what she was and making her into something she doesn't want to be.”

“She is what she is. As you are what you are and I am what I am. That cannot be changed, no matter how much you fight against it. It's a useless waste of energies, Will. And I believe this will only help her, and us, to understand each other better. To see each other for what we really are and set aside our lies and masks for a while. We wear that sufficiently enough with everybody else, don't you think?”

He tries to infuse his voice with the sweetest tone he's capable of, something that sounds gentle and graceful to his ears, but that hides a darker and more powerful side, something able to compel him, that makes him softly shiver and cling to the blanket; something that brings his eyes right to his lips, staring at the way they move while he talks, wishing he could shut him up with a kiss he's starving for.

Will nods absently and sinks against the softness behind him, looking at his hands against the white of the sheets; Hannibal keeps touching him, like he's trying to give that caress enough strength to convince him to do what he wants, what they want. And he knows he doesn't need to, because, in the end, they always win: they lead the way and he tags along, trusting them more than he should.

Not because he's not able to stand up for himself with them, he already proved them that he's so much tougher and harder to bend than they thought, but because there's no point in fighting against Hannibal and Abigail, against his own family. Not about things he longs for as well: he wants to feel them really close, to be with them as much as he can, to share dreams and nightmares that he faced alone for too long.

And Will is tired: he's tired of being alone, of holding up weights far too heavy for his shoulders on his own; in his mind, before his closed eyes, he can see them holding out their hands, reaching out to him, smiling and inviting him in, wanting him with them with an almost scaring intensity that burns in their orbits and slides on his skin like fire and ice.

Will wants to grab them and let them hold him close, with Hannibal's lips on his forehead, kissing him as gently as he can, and Abigail's body pressed against his, feeling the rise and fall of his chest on his side.

“I guess it would help her forget about Garret Jacob Hobbs once and for all, that it will take this one, last memory away from his ghost.”

Hannibal smiles again, his eyes transitioning from a dark red to a more reassuring shade of brown; Will allows his touches, the kiss against his temple, the delicate pressure of his fingers under the covers, sliding on his thighs.

“Do you think she ever dreams of... going back to how it was before? Before everything happened and her life became the complicated source of anxiety that it's now?”

Do you think she wants to go back to a life without us in it? With her family still happy and alive? Without the sword of her father's murders hanging on her head? Without your darkness and the confusion I bring with me?

Hannibal reads his real question inside his heart, in his mind, caresses his doubts with his icy fingers and twists his feelings until he doesn't know if they're real and his own anymore; he takes a long time to answer and while he waits, Will thinks about himself before him.

Was he happier? Was his life better? Sometimes he wishes he could say yes, wishes he could deny how much Hannibal's presence means to his, how deeply he longs for his touches, for his kisses. He just wants him. And he knows the man needs him too.

“No more than you do, Will. You can wish to return to a time when life was easier, when your heart wasn't so full and heavy. But in the end, you chose to be here yourself. And I like to enjoy the idea that there might be a reason for that.”

Will kisses him because he doesn't want to answer, because he doesn't want to look in his eyes and see the truth he still can't admit to himself written right there in plain sight, where he cannot ignore it. And Hannibal kisses him back, grabs him hard and pushes him down on the bed, covering him.

Theirs bodies press together and he moans through the kisses, caresses his face and pulls his hair, allows him to do everything he wants to him.

“Fine, let's do what she wants...”

Hannibal looks him for a long moment before kissing him again while smiling, approving and sealing his decision with his lips and sipping into their kiss a sense of ownership that makes his skin crawl and shivers.

Will groans under him and then relaxes against the pillows.

\-----

The days drag by around him while the necessary preparations for their “family outing” are being made, and to avoid thinking too much about the implications and the complications of it, Will throws himself mind and soul in his work, trying to focus on everything and nothing at the same time: he stays at the academy until it's late and does researches for hours and doesn't know what use or utility they could have at the end of the day.

He keeps to himself as much as he can; talking, being forced to fake and smile and act as normally as he can is repulsive to him right now: he just can't do it, not anymore, not while his heart is heavy and his mind is clouded.

Abigail and Hannibal shower him with little attentions that ease the burdens for a while, for brief periods of freedom and almost peace: but then he looks at the girl from a different angle and thinks he can see blood on her lips and on her hands, in Hannibal's smile reads a satisfaction that makes him shiver. He sleeps in Wolf's trap most of the nights, but when he stays in Baltimore and allows the man to drag his hands and his nails on his skin, to bite and kiss the curve of his shoulders and of his neck... he feels like he has a place, that he can still be part of something and not feel like a ship lost at the sea.

And Hannibal is more than happy to be the one who keeps him together, who makes all the pieces fit and gives him a shape, an identity he finds under his body, while he shakes and trembles and moans. It's the sweetest ownership, something that not only he accepts with an ease that always surprises him, but that he wants so desperately it hurts.

When Abel Gideon escapes from his hospital and he's dragged by Jack into the manhunt, Will is almost happy for it, to be able to slip into somebody else's mind for a while, as dark as it can be, and forget his own, to leave it behind himself and sink into a madness far from him.

The man is desperate, angry, obsessed with revenge, but methodical and cold in the execution of his plans, every move has a particular meaning and has been thoughtfully prepared to get the attention of Chesapeake Ripper; Hannibal doesn't fall for his ruse, of course, he's far too intelligent to expose himself like this. 

But Will thinks he can almost feel the burning heat of his repressed fury on his skin and it distracts him, forces him to focus on the man instead of the job and only when Jack calls him out about it, he returns to the present and to what has to be done. But he's still haunted by him, by his feelings that slip into him, because in his mind he can see him so clearly, sitting in his study and following their moves through the news Freddie Lounds posts on her blog almost in real time.

He almost expects his phone to start ringing and to hear his voice, but of course, it doesn't happen. And he's relieved, because it means that he and Abigail will be safe, that no harm or suspect will come to them.

He wants nothing more than to protect them, than to be sure they're ok even though they don't need him to. They're strong and cruel enough.

They can't do much more than to follow the trail of bodies Gideon leaves behind like breadcrumbs.

When they find Chilton, cut open like an animal at the slaughterhouse and barely breathing, instead of looking at his mutilated body still bleeding on the table, he stares at Freddie Lounds' face, at the way her pupils are dilated and wide, at the way her blood-soaked hands keep pressing the ventilator almost desperately to keep the man alive.

The woman looks back at him and for a long moment nothing seems to move: and it lasts until she moves away to allow the medics to do their job and her eyes leave him.

It leaves him a mixed feeling almost of sympathy for her, because she always saw everything through the aseptic eye of a journalist, through pictures and videos, far away from the scent of carnage, and has troubles coping when the blood is warm and real and thick between her feelings.

He knows how she must feel: he used to be that way too, used to see death from the outside, from a safe distance, without knowing what it really tastes and smells like.

Will walks towards her and asks, trying to sound not concerned and as casual as possible, if she's all right: she keeps staring at the now empty operating table and then nods slowly, without speaking, without even looking at him.

He's not there when they arrest the man in front of Alana Bloom's house; and he stays outside when he arrives, stares at the former doctor locked into the police car, who stares back at him and then smiles, a smile that is a recognition, even though the coherent part of him mind tries to convince him it can't be, and at the same time an accusation that digs deep into his heart and makes him aware of how guilty and wrong and dirty he is.

“Is he dead?”

It's the only thing Gideon asks Will when he reaches him; he shakes his head. The man looks disappointed.

“Oh well, not everything can go according to the plans I guess.”

Will wants to argue against it, wants to know what that smile meant, what was hidden behind it and what the man really knows. If he knows something after all or if this is just the work of his mind about to give up because of the tension it's enduring.

He knows he should get inside the house and see if Alana is alright, that he should at least try and pretend all this generates a reaction in him that is not the desire to run away and reach Abigail and Hannibal; it used to be important for him, saving lives, be a good and decent man with an integrity, with a purpose is life.

When did it all became empty and meaningless? When he took the first bite of Paul Mason's heart? When Hannibal kissed him the first time after saving his life? When he ate his seeds and allowed him to own him and his life once again? Now he doesn't even know if it ever really mattered or if it was all an illusion.

He feels lost and aware at the same times; there's a faint scent of blood around him, like a red string meant to show him the way back home, to make sure he knows how to come back to the place he really belongs to, where he doesn't have to lie or pretend.

Will takes a deep breath and the cold air fills his lungs, clearing his head a bit, but his heart keeps beating faster than it should and he feels a terrible ache in his chest, right where it is; he spots Alana just outside the house, talking to Jack and feels both of them so incredibly distant and removed from him, like he's looking at a very, very old picture, yellowed and fading, of something that comes from another time and that holds almost no meaning for him.

He looks at the two people who used to be among the closest to him and feels nothing for them except maybe a residue of affection, the faint feeling of a past and now long gone attachment he remembers with a sprinkle of nostalgia, but nothing more; something stronger and much more important erased all his past feelings, burned all that was important before and planted its own seeds into the scorched earth of his soul, to be sure to be the only one there, the only life form in that desolation.

And he let it happened, he didn't do anything to stop it: maybe a part of him even welcomed it, craved the fire and the pain and the scent of smoke that now lingers around him, wanted to be owned by only one master and rule over only one man; the one who now is calling him to him without needing words.

Alana catches him looking at them and seems to be on the verge of calling him and Will feels suddenly trapped, feels a need to run away that verges on panic; he's out in the open, but he feels like he's suffocating: he tries to take another deep breath and his nostrils are flooded again with the scent of blood that follows him everywhere, that stalks him together with the stag and the nightmares that come with it.

Will turns around, turns his back to the house, to a past that means less and less to him everyday, and goes back to his car; he catches a last glimpse of Gideon still smiling at him.

\---  
He drives until he finds a still open Starbucks and sits there in silence for a while, sipping a coffee he barely tastes, looking in front of himself and trying to keep his mind as empty as he can; there are only two other people in the room with him, plus the two clerks, but he feels completely alone.

Will looks into his cup and stares at the black liquid, tries to drown his dark and tainted thoughts in it, to clean his mind, even thought he doesn't think that is even still possible for him: because he's too twisted and too wrong to deserve and even to hope to be left in peace, to be able to close his eyes without horrors and nightmares attacking him and gripping his brain until he's screaming.

And yet... he can't think of a time where he has been happier than he is now: he never had much from life, never felt the warmth of a family, never enjoyed a love that made him feel accepted and wanted. But he does now. In his mind he can see Hannibal and Abigail and he knows his place is there with them, that it was always there with them.

Once upon a time, he had been different, he had been a creature of life and light; but that too was a lie, a mask he wore to hide his contorted and terrifying true face: he remains trapped between life on one side and death on the other, can taste both in his mouth. But always chooses his dark side, always longs to be surrounded and reduced to submission by it.

By Hannibal, who is death and darkness, who chokes life out of his lungs, who destroys what little purity is left in his body and burns everything around him: to keep him only his, to own him completely.

He dreams of the peace he finds in his arms, of the oblivion it gives his mind; he wants his hands on him, his breath on his lips, his body pressing him down on the bed and then fucking him until he's reduced to nothing in his arms, until they become one thing that cannot be separated anymore.

He longs for the acceptance and the limitless love he feels with him and Abigail; Will always felt wrong, broken, ill with others, constantly judged, examined, abandoned because of what he was, for being himself, for having a mind that could see what others couldn't, for enjoying it, for welcoming darkness in his life and inside him. 

But with them everything is different, because they are all the same, they fit in together, they don't have barriers or forts because they don't need to. And yet he still can't leave his old life completely behind, can't sink into this twisted love without guilt.

So he remains suspended in between. And it's tearing him apart.

Will rubs his eyes and tries to imagine how others see him, if they can sense how wrong, how out of place and crooked he is in reality, behind the mask of normalcy he still wears everyday; he's overwhelmed with secrets, lies and truths he still cannot face, that dig their claws in his soul and in his heart and make him slowly bleed out from the inside.

He looks at the people around him and envies him for a moment: because they don't know what death really look like, what's the taste of darkness and how sleek and warm blood can be when it covers your hands.

He pays his coffee and gets up in silence; it's raining outside, but Will makes no effort to hurry up to his car, allows the rain to fall on him, to soak him to his bones until he's shivering in the cold night, until all he can feel is his body trembling and his teeth rattling in his mouth.

At least, he thinks, he can't hear his own thoughts beating and screaming inside his head, drowning him and suffocating everything else.

When Hannibal opens the door, he quickly brings him inside, worried about him getting sick, but Will doesn't move from the door, abandons himself against it and stares at the man in front of him through his wet hair, ignoring the cold, the discomfort and the ache he feels inside.

“Abigail?”

“She's asleep. Will, I insist you come with me and change your clothes...”

“I know, I just... need a moment, alright? Just... just a moment.”

Will closes his eyes and feels Hannibal coming closer to him even thought he cannot see him; the man puts a hand on his arms, but he remains perfectly still, breathing slowly and allowing him to read inside him, to see the turmoil that shakes his heart. Hannibal inhales and then Will feels his lips against his neck, right where his pulse is.

“I wish I could still be what I was sometimes. I wish... I could forget once and for all how to... how to love you.”

Hannibal's lips follow the curve of his skin and Will shivers again, in something that is almost pleasure this time. The man doesn't answer.

“I wish I could still care about what is not us. I do, somehow, but it feels like I'm looking at my old life through a looking glass, through a window covered in yellowing dust. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I don't... recognize what I see. I know it's my reflection, but it doesn't feel the same anymore. But I know that that's what I am without the masks, what I look like when I let all the curtains fall and erase all the lies I'm forced to live with everyday. And I love what I see. I love the fact that I look so much like you, that I feel you in every breath I take, in everything. You're inside my blood because I wanted you there.”

Will opens his eyes and Hannibal stares back at him, serious and marble like, a statue looking down at his still weak and soft human flesh. But, between them, he's the one who looks weak now, pliant under his fingers, an almost pained look in his eyes, the pain of somebody who has to endure the loss of the most precious thing for him over and over and just thinking about it kills something inside him: Hannibal caresses his face, drags his thumb across his lips, then kisses him hard and Will moans into the kiss, pulls him closer, holds him like he's scared he's going to disappear.

They're desperate for each other, desperate to feel alive through their touches, because only when they're together they're whole. Hannibal owns him, but Will keeps him together; Hannibal can break his body and shape him the way he wants, but Will can destroy his whole being in a second.

When the part, they're breathing hard and fast and the look they exchange is so deep Will feels it scratch his skin until he bleeds.

“You are mine, Will. I'll never share you, you belong to me and I have marked every single atom that composes your being as mine. But I am your slave. I am on my knees for you. You can destroy me with one word, I am defenseless, at your mercy.”

Will inhales deeply and kisses him again, brushing his whole body against Hannibal's, feeling the cold that exudes from him slipping inside him, chilling him to the core and at the same time, making him feel more alive then ever. Hannibal bites his lips and his nails dig into the soft flesh his his hips after slipping under his soaked shirt. He's shivering violently now but doesn't care, doesn't want to let him go now.

When they part to catch their breath, Will tries to smile and him, but of relieved and understanding sigh comes out, smothered against his shoulder, where he can hide and feel protected and safe.

“Sometimes I only feel alive when I'm in your arms... and I don't want this to change. I want you to own me. I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine.”

Hannibal says nothing, but smiles after a moment and suddenly regains his composure: the pain on his face disappears, his features return hard and impossible to read, but his eyes are a fire that burns Will alive, that ignites him from the inside and he feels overwhelmed with feelings he can't keep down. His words still echo in his head, sentences of ownership and surrender, of love and despair neither of them can fight, but that they can only welcome and accept.

\---  
Hannibal prepares him a bath and then washes him gently, caressing his hair, his naked shoulders and chest with his long, cold and strong fingers, rubbing the soft sponge against his body and allowing the warm water to chase the chills away from him.

Will remains in silence the whole time, accepts his touches, his kisses, the whispers the man breathes into his ear. He wonders if Abigail woke up during their discussion, if she knows somehow what happened and happens between them without the need to be present and witness the events first hand.

Abigail with her deep, blue eyes, with her secrets, her twisted hopes and dreams, the bridge that draws them closer and closer, the ring that wants to entrap them all together in its circle. Abigail who wants them to be a family and Will who wants to give in so badly the air sometimes is knocked out of his lungs when the need is too strong. But who is still wiry and suspicious, worried about what moves they plan in the dark, when he cannot see them.

And Hannibal who owns them, who isolates them and forces them to need him, to depend on him completely, that does scorched earth around them, but that at the same time needs them more than they need him. Who would kiss the soil they walk on and give them the whole world for them to consume.

Will closes his eyes and sighs when Hannibal's hand surrounds his neck, not pressing or trying to choke him, just resting there, allowing him to feel the ownership in that touch, but still giving him the chance to free himself and knock it away. Will breathes deeply, feels those fingers so clearly and strongly, like they're burning into his skin and leaving his mark on him.

Slowly, he turns his head and lets Hannibal plant a kiss on his lips, deepens it and moans in it, until he feels the man returning the moan and placing a hand in his hair, pulling gently; he wants him, every part of him: his fury, his care, the destruction he brings with him, the blood on his hands and the terrible intensity of his love.

Will breathes against his lips and rests against his forehead, looking into his deep and red eyes. Hannibal smiles at him and then kisses him again.

While Hannibal fucks him on the bed, Will wonders if he'll ever feel completely alive again outside his embrace, without his lips pressing everywhere on his body, tasting his skin and licking the sweat away from the hollows of his collarbone, biting his neck and sucking deep bruises on his shoulders.

He feels filled, safe in the hands of death itself, of the most dangerous creature he'll ever meet: the tiger he plays with, that he pets and caresses without fearing his claws and his teeth, knowing he'll probably love to be teared apart by him, will enjoy tasting his own blood and flesh in his mouth.

Hannibal pounds inside him hard and fast, keeping his legs spread and Will bears his neck at him, the prey who doesn't fear his predator, but that welcomes him and almost begs him to take everything he wants from him. The man looks at him with red eyes wide as a furnace, groaning and whispering on his skin; Will pulls at his hair and bites his lips when they kiss, until blood fills his mouth.

They're the same, in the end, they both want the same things: they want to belong, they want to be loved and they both know only the other can accept every side, every flaw, every sin, every deep and hidden secret. They know that they'll never judge each other, that between them there are no lies.

Will caresses Hannibal's face while the man comes inside him, holds him so close, like he wants him to sink inside his aching bones and become one thing with him, so they'll never be apart ever again. Hannibal kisses him until they're both breathless, bites down on the juncture between neck and shoulder to push him over the edge: the orgasm takes him over and Will scratches his back deep to mark him as well, because Hannibal belongs to him and no one else.

They stare at each other for a long time after, entangled together between the sheets, exchanging gentle touches that should feel out of place between them, but that instead soothe their souls and leave them satisfied and almost happy. And Will stops caring about the world outside, about the life and the people he left behind, because what he wants and needs is right there between Hannibal's arms. 

He falls asleep with a soft smile on his lips.

\-----

“Are you alright?”

Will looks up from where he has been fumbling with the laces of his boots and sees Abigail staring at him, her hair tied in a ponytail, creating a the image of a rope reaching down to him somehow; he forces himself to smile and gets up, brushing dead leaves away from his trousers.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

She looks around for a moment, drinks in the sight of the forest around them, colored of deep reds, oranges and yellows, surrounding them and tampering the sounds of the world outside; the girl takes a deep breath and closer her eyes: the both can feel the cold air on their skins, deep inside their lungs. Will takes a few moments to enjoy the view as well, to allow it to give him the illusion of calm and peace, pretending they're not about to break it by bringing death and chaos there.

He shouldn't feel so calm, so resigned, but he does: it's like he has finally com to terms with the dangerous monsters in his mind, to the point where now they can both live in moderate peace, sharing the same space, without fighting anymore. He's tired of fighting, he wants to live, to breathe freely, to forget about his sins and overcome them.

And after all, he thinks egoistically and cruelly maybe, better this than something else: I give Abigail and Hannibal what they want, I join them here, so I can pretend I don't have to deal with... all the rest. So I can have my peace in return and I can kid myself believing there's nothing more than that, that this is all we are. A family, yes, we're family after all.

Abigail holds his hand for a moment, her fingers cold and small against his, before smiling again.

“You know... we don't have to do anything if you don't feel like. We can just take a walk, have a picnic or something...”

Will shakes his head and grabs his bag.

“You want to do this. I know you need us to do this all together. And maybe you're right, maybe this help us put everything in the right order. Don't worry so much about me, I'll be ok.”

“I know, I'm not worried. I was just being nice!”

They share a laugh and for a moment they can almost forget why they're there: that Hannibal behind them is carefully examining the rifles they brought with them, the containers for the meat, the knives and all the other tools to make sure they're prepared for every possible event. Abigail lets go of his hand and puts on her gloves; they both turn around when they hear Hannibal approaching.

“Everything is in order, as it should be. Are you two all set up and prepared, yes?”

Abigail nods at him and then starts walking ahead of them; both Will and Hannibal observe her for a moment, then Will feels him slipping a hand in his hair, caressing them almost gently, but with a faint hint of possessions.

He faces him and in Hannibal's eyes reads contentment and pride, both for him and for her. Will takes a deep breath and follows.

 

Like fishing, hunting mostly consists in waiting and waiting for the prey and the right  
moment to manifest themselves: they're all skilled in that art, none of them gets impatient or bored; Will looks at Abigail and can't deny the happiness he feels when he sees her smiling, relaxed and carefree in an environment that suits her and that she knows. These are not Minnesota's forests, but it seems to make no difference for her.

They looks for trails and droppings, following them and going deeper and deeper into the woods; but mostly they observe the nature around them, the tall trees sheltering them from the pale sun, its soft lights creating complex tricks of the light and breathing deeply the clear air around them.

It reminds Will of a church, of one of those majestic European cathedrals where the silence seems absolute, but you can still feel energy and life all around you, pulsing through your body and making you shiver in that half darkness.

Hannibal seems to understand his thoughts: the man smiles at him and while Abigail takes a few pictures of the forest, they walk together in silence, not even touching; a part of him is still convinced this, somehow, is a mistake, that this climate and what they're about to do will take them over the edge. But then he looks around and the calm that sips into him is overwhelming, intoxicating and everything looks so normal... it gives him the illusion of them as a real family, as something that can be pure and hold up a convincing pretense.

Abigail smiles at him and he smiles back; Hannibal presses his lips against his temple and kisses him gently.

“Allow us to make you happy, Will.”

His voice makes him tremble and Will has to close his eyes for a long, long moment, fills his lungs with hair that comes out in a shake breath.

He doesn't reply in the end, but doesn't push Hannibal away or changes expression. Deep down he knows that they're monsters, that this peace between them is an illusion: the three of them are cruel and terrible killers, dangerous creatures of death and darkness, who smothered their own humanity to be reborn in this new form.

Abigail and the madness that follows her everywhere, with her secrets and her lies; Hannibal with his bottomless hunger, with his blood stained hands.

And him, who gave everything up to be with them, to taste decay and violence in his mouth, to feast on cadavers and blood still warm.

The only family he'll ever have, is the one that will always end up twisting and killing him; but he only with them he feels whole.

 

Abigail moves at ease into the woods, silent and watchful like a cat, concentrated on her task, blind and deaf to anything else around them; Will walks by her side and they barely speak: she point at trees or bushes or tracks, explains to him the basics of hunting even though he doesn't need it. But he likes to see her like this, so alive and warm and real, not the dark little shadow she seems to be sometimes, the one that looks to much like Hannibal, like she forgets how to be her own person and steals from him.

Now she's Abigail, just Abigail, with her lively blue eyes and a smile on her face that hides a whole world behind. One where they can be almost happy and forget what happens all around them.

“Do you like it here?”

She nods.

“Yeah, it's quiet, nice... much like Minnesota, but well, I guess forests mostly look the same everywhere.”

He thinks about what to say for a while, feeling the cold breeze on your face, caressing his hair and blowing away his thoughts; and Abigail's eyes fixated on him.

“Do you ever want to go back there? To see where you grew up again?”

Abigail takes her time to answer, looking straight at him, reading the emotions on his face. She shakes her head in the end.

“No, I like it here, I don't want to go back. There's nothing there for me; my family is here now.”

“Yeah, and what good has it done to you...”

Abigail takes his hand again and holds it.

“I'm happier now than I was before. And I know you are too. This is home, this is where we should be.”

Will smiles softly at her and then nods.

\---  
It's Abigail the one who takes the shot at their prey: Will can feel the incredible silence that comes before the blast heavy on his skin, weighting him down and keeping him still while the girl aims and then, after several, long moments, fires.

She smiles proudly at him when they find the dead deer, a female, laying on a bed of red and yellow leaves spread around her like a funerary crown, like a last homage of the forest to her; after making sure the animal is really dead, they kneel in front of it.

Abigail runs her fingers through her fur, closes her still open eyes, takes his hand and makes Will feel the softness of the dead carcass under their hands; but Will can only look at the pool of blood under the animal's head, red among red and orange, soaking the soil and sipping into the thirsty earth. He's fascinated by it, by the perfect hole in the deer's head, staring back at him like an accusation, like a warning.

He tries to imagine Abigail killings human beings instead of animal, but he can't, the imagine refuses to appear in front of his eyes even if he closes them and breathes in the scent of blood and death around them. He saw her killing Nick Boyle in his mind and it had been so natural back then, so immediate, but that was different: he can't picture her as a cold blooded and merciless killer, not even now.

She comes back to the present time and explains him that they need to take the animal back to the camp so their can field dress it.

“You have to do it as soon as you can, or they meat will spoil.”

But neither of them moves: their eyes can't leave deer laying in front of them, its blood, the soft smell of leaves, copper, earth and life all around them that mixes with the one of death that comes with them, that never leaves their bodies, but clings to them. They don't even wonder where Hannibal is, because they can feel him, can taste his darkness on their tongue.

“I can show you how to do it... and you'll make the cuts.”

He almost wants to laugh at how serious her voice sounds, but he doesn't. Because he knows what she really means.

“Like a bloom baptism?”

She's not smiling either when she rises her eyes to look at him.

“Yes. Like a blood baptism.”

They're both startled by the shoot that breaks the silence and that moment: Abigail lets out a strangled sound and looks around, almost panicking, but calms down when she sees Hannibal's silhouette in the distance. They stare at him while he calmly walks towards his prey and makes sure its dead.

He's a dark figure against the trees and the darkening sky, a menacing presence that hovers over them too, despite the distance.

Everything happens for them like they're looking at a movie on a screen, like there's a distinct division between them and him. The woods are so quiet, the silence is so deep Will can hear Abigail breathing and swallowing and his own heartbeat.

It's so unreal, the image of the three of them in a deep and quiet forest, breaking its calm with their guns and their knives, ruining that perfect stillness and life to do what he thinks must be the only thing he can do: kill and destroy.

Light the world on fire and smile as it burns to its core.

Will feels the pressure of their expectations for him, the weight of their love, of the grip they both have on his heart; feels the way they drag him down and suffocate all the parts of him that try to fight, to rebel, making him as dark and as wrong as they are. 

Hannibal walks back towards them barely making a sound, only the faint breaking of the leaves under his feet; he stops in front of them and smiles at Will, like he's proud, like he has finally become the man he wanted him to be. When he looks down, he sees that his fingers have slipped into the red pool of blood.

\---  
Abigail guides his hands through layers of skin, muscle and rivers of thick and slippery blood: Will works the knife inside the dead animal, cuts the membranes that hold the guts, still warm with the last residues of life, lets them fall on the ground and watch them as they pool at his feet, like a snake who could attack him any seconds and strangle him in its bloody spears.

But what is dead stays dead; he forces himself to look away and keeps cleaning the carcass, ignoring Hannibal's pleased looks, the way he looks at him like he wants to licks the blood away from his arms, suck it away for him gloved fingers, from the knife he's holding, hold him close to him while he's still with his hands deep in the insides of the deer.

Hannibal wants to know what he tastes like when he's covered in gore and smells of death and decay; and he wants to dig his nails into his skin, sink them so deeply he'll leave permanent scars on him, wants to bite his neck and his shoulders, kiss and moan and die in his arms, right where he belongs, wishing goodbye forever to his life and lay there.

Abigail carefully bags the organs they want to take home, tells him to leave the rest there for the scavengers of the forest, that will thank them for the feast.

Will has blood up to his elbows, like the day he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs and both saved and condemned his daughter to this new life; he's shaking when he looks at his hands and throws his used gloves into the black plastic bag. Hannibal kisses his temple and Abigail smiles so brightly he thinks he's almost scared by the light and happiness that come from it.

“You've done really good! I can't believe that was your first time!”

Will wants to reply, but they both fall silent when Hannibal hoists its animal, a big male, look at him work with a fascination they cannot deny. Abigail swallows deeply, glues her eyes to the man's back and he suddenly feels cold, freezing. Behind him, he can almost feel the menacing and hovering presence of the stag of his nightmares, much different from the one Hannibal is butchering in front of them.

He is much quicker than him, moves expertly and carefully, his movements are almost hypnotic, like a dance meant to entice and capture him, a spider that invites a butterfly into its lair, ready to entrap, smother and then eat it.

And Will doesn't want to break free, doesn't want to be rescued or saved. He wants to allow him to take everything he wants from him: his body, his heart, his soul... they all belong to him anyway, so why not just let him take them.

Abigail breathes softly next to him and he wonders if she thinks the same, if she too almost wants to be sacrificed on the altar Hannibal keeps them on, caressing them with hands like knives, leaving small and almost invisible marks of possession in their bodies.

Everything is done so fast in the end, Will is still lost in his thoughts while he washes his hands, helps put the animals in ice truck of the car and then leans against it, trying to catch his breath, to clear his head.

Hannibal approaches him quietly, caresses the side of his face and then his hair, his hands so cold against his heated cheeks, his eyes red with greed and desire.

“Abigail was right. It was so natural for you, your hands moved following a script you already knew. You were made for this.”

“I'm sure that makes you very happy...”

Will looks at him and that's when Hannibal kisses him, deeply, owning his mouth and sucking on his lips, holding him close and pulling his hair lightly, but enough to make him moan; Will responds by biting his lip until they both taste blood. He's still smiling when the separate.

“Yes, Will. It does. This was always inside you, you just had to let it out.”

He kisses Abigail's forehead when she arrives, holds both of them close to him, an embrace with death that doesn't scare either of them, that brings them closer and closer to him, like Hannibal is the sweetest oasis in a burning desert and they long for it no matter the cost, no matter what it'll ask them.

Abigail stares at him with a smile on her face, that curves her lips while still hiding her teeth, the one that sometimes Will imagines sinking into his skin and tearing it apart, her mouth red from his blood and full of gore. 

He thinks about both her and Hannibal eating him while he's still alive, while he's still breathing and moving under them, biting raw flesh off his bones, licking the gaping and deep wounds, kissing them with love and worship.

He smiles back, in the end, because the thought it sweet in his mind, the scent of blood exquisite to his nose and Will thinks that if he has to die, he wants them to kill him, he wants them to consume him entirely and leave nothing but clean bones behind.

Will sighs against the crook of Hannibal's neck and licks the skin, tasting sweat, blood and death in his mouth and loving it.

Loving every part of it.

\-----

Hannibal fucks him into the shower once they're home, slowly, rubbing his back while he's pressing himself against the immaculate tiles of the bathroom: Will moans and groans, opens his body to him, allows Hannibal to sink deep inside him, give up and abandons all his wills to him, bows like a knight in front of his king.

His hands are still cold despite the warmth of the water, and they grabs his shoulders hard, until they leave marks, circle his neck and Will feels like he can't breath, like he's not really there anymore, dizzy and hot and aroused and scared all in one. No matter how well he has washed his hands, he can still feel the blood there, can still see it and doesn't know if it's the deer's or Abigail's.

“You're mine, you belong to me. To me.”

Hannibal bites his neck so hard he has to groan out in pain, pushes his hips back to get more pressure, more feeling, more of him. All of him. Will wants to devour him too, wants to know if his insides are as cold and as hard as the rest of his body, if his heart is made of ice or not.

Will grabs the arm that is keeping him still and scratches it, licks the blood away and comes when he hears the man moan against his skin, when he has the coppery taste spreading in his mouth. Hannibal supports him and pushes in and out another couple of time before following.

“Yes, I'm yours... I'm yours...”

And Will realizes that, deep inside, he always knew that was true: from the first time, from their first meeting in Jack's office, he knew it. He already had Hannibal's mark on his soul, deep inside his heart, burning bright and burning hot.


End file.
